flt  ibe  6atc$  of  noon. 


f  J\l 


o        oor| 


3-< ' 


BY  JAMES  T.   GALLAGHER 


BOSTON 

ANGEL  GUARDIAN  PRESS. 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,   1899, 
BY  JAMES  T.  GALLAGHER. 


Go  flfc#  TDQiffe. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

AT  THE  GATES  OF  NOON  9 

WINTER         --------  I  I 

THE  SKYLARK       -         -         -  12 

NATURE  WORSHIP         -                                             -  13 

SPRING                --------  15 

THE  MISSING  SPRING    ------  16 

SUMMER'S  SERMON       -        -                           -         -  17 

JUNE---  ---l8 

EXIT  OF  SUMMER                                               -         -  1 9 

COMPENSATION     -                  2O 

ARMENIA A  PLEA       ------  21 

HAWTHORNE'S  BIRTHPLACE         -         -         -        -  22 

SUNSET  ON  CALLOW'S  HILL          -         -         -         -  23 

WASHINGTON 24 

RIGHT 25 

FATHER  MURPHY   IN  '98 26 

JUSTICE             -             -  27 

REVERIE  -28 

THE  BIRTH  OF  LIGHT 29 

LOVE  LIED    -         -         - 30 

CHARLES  A.  DANA 31 

NORTH  BRIDGE     -------  32 

K  BATTLE  OF  BUNKER  HILL     -         -         -         -  35 

MARBLEHEAD         -------39 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 43 

DR.  AMOS  HOWE  JOHNSON     -----  44 

GRANT  AND  DEATH 46 

DR.  ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE           -         -        -        -  47 


EMMKT  -             49 

JOHN    BOYLE    O'REILLY  53 

CHARLES  J.    KICKHAM  56 

MAJOR  GRADV            ...  58 

CAED  MILLE     FAILTHE  do 

ALLEN,   LARKIN  AND  o'BRIF.N           -             -  -             -             C>2 

RELEASED. AUGUST,    1896    -  64 

SHAMROCKS  FROM  IRELAND  -             -             (>f> 

A  SHAMROCK   FROM    THE   IRISH    SHORE  -            -             JO 

DEAR   SHAMROCK   OF  MY   NATIVE  VALK  -             -             J2 

ST.  PATRICK'S  DAY        -  -         7-i 

ST  PATRICK'S  DAY  TOASTS  -  -         -         76 

THE  GALLANT  NINTH  -  -         -         78 

SPREAD  THE  LIGHT  -            So 

THE  DOG  OF  AUGHRIM  82 

A  PICTURE  OF  IRISH  HISTORY  86 
FAMINE  IN  IRELAND  -  -  ...  90 
ERIN'S  APPEAL  -  ...  93 

A  PLEA  FOR  UNITY 95 

MEN  OF  IRELAND  -         97 

SELF  RELIANCE     -  -         99 

ROSCOMMON'S  WELCOME  TO  PARNELL  102 

ANCIENT  ORDER  OF  HIBERNIANS  104 
LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  OPERA  OF  "BRIAN 

BORU." 

THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS    MUST  GO     - 

AT   LAST             ...  -           I  I  I 

VOW  OF  THE   EXILED  CELT     -  114 

THE   EXILE  TO  HIS   SON  I  I  6 

THE   DYING     EXILE             -             -  -                         121 

WILL   I   REMEMBERED    BF.  !       -  127 

AH,   WELL   I   LOVE   MY   NATIVE    LAND  129 

Hi. ME      ------  -           !:>[ 

THE   AUTUMN    DAYS  134 

JULY         -             -  -             -           136 

WHERE   ARE  THE   GODS  ? 18 


BOYHOOD'S  CHRISTMAS  NIGHT     -  140 

OLD  YEAR,  GOOD-BYE    -        -         -        -                  -  143 

THE   SEA 145 

TO  MY  FATHER -        -  H7 

A  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  FOR  HER  CHILD           -        -  151 

LEO  XIII  GOLDEN  JUBILEE           -  153 

WHAT  CATHOLICS  HAVE  DONE  FOR  AMERICA       -  155 

A  CHILD            -             -             -             -             -             -             -             -  l6l 

R.   \V.                                                                                                                       -  163 

JAMES -             -  l66 

MAY l6S 

OH    ASK   ME  NOT  WHY   AM  I   SAD      -                                         -  I  JO 

ADIEU    -             --             - 172 

TO  A  CHILD                 ..-_---  175 
TRUE   LOVE    -             -             -             -             -             -             -             -176 

TO    MAY                                                                                                               -  1/7 

ANNIE                                                                                                                    -  179 

LITTLE  TOMMY'S  WOOING     -----  180 

ANNIE  BAN  MACHREE  -         -         -         -         -         -  1 82 

THE  BELLE  OF  BUNKER  HILL       -                           -  184 

SONG -  -lS6 

SHATTERED  HOPES          ------  188 

POPPING   THE  QUESTION"          -----  19^ 

THE   MODEL  OF  MYLAUY's   HAND                                           -  IQ9 

IS   IT   LOVE     --------  200 

O   DARLING   SING  THE  SONG    AGAIN          -             -  2O2 

DARLING   ANNIE    -             -             -             -                           -             -  204 

TELL  ME   YOU  LOVE  ME             -             -             -             -             -  2O6 

ANNIE 2uS 

ANNIE  DARLING    -  2!O 

MY    OWN  MARY   DEAR      -             -                           -             -             -  212 
TO   M.J.R.                   -             -                                                                     --'4 

INVESTIGATE.   INVESTIGATORS       -  2l6 

THE  DAY  WE  CELEBRATE        -----  2l8 

WHAT  WILL  THE  DOCTORS   DO?       -             -             -             -  22O 

IT'S   A  VERY  FUNNY  WORLD  222 

vii 


' 


"Lo!  at  the  gates  of  noon  I  musing  stand: 
Since  dawn  my  pathway  o'er  the  meadows  wound, 
And  all  the  bright  and  fragrant  flowers  I  found, 

Childlike,  I  gathered  for  a  garland  grand." 


Jit  the  Sates  of 


C©  !  at  tbe  gates  of  noon  fl  musing  stand  : 
Since  Dawn  mv  patbwap.  o'er  tbe  meadows 
wound, 
Bnd  all  tbe  brigbt  and  fragrant  flowers  11 

(ound, 

Cbildlifce,  11  gatbered  for  a  garland  grand 
So  wreatbe  tbe  altar  of  m\>  native  land 
Bnd  even?  sbrine  in  Jf  anc\?'0  ballowed  ground  ; 
•fcope's    terian    ribbon    twined   tbeir    stems 

around, 

JSut  scentless  now  tbeis  droop  witbin  m£  band! 
L'et  on  tbeir  faded  petals  would  11  loofc 

J£x>ening  merges  in  Eternity  ; 
tbe^  call  bach  eacb  meadow,  vale  and  brook 
11  knew  and  cberisbed  wben  a  dreamer  free  ; 
Bnd  rest  sball  tbe\>  forever  in  tbis  booh 

d,  percbance,  bie  all,  but  loved  by,  me  ! 


WINTER. 


Minter. 

'"THE  exiled  Winter  seized  again  his  throne, 
*       And  through  the  land  his  haughty  couriers 

sent, 

Proclaiming  loud  his  mandate  and  intent 
That  neither  mercy  nor  respite  be  shown 
Whate'er  rebelled  his  regal  sway  to  own. 
His  milky  banner,  battle-scarred  and  rent, 
He  flung  adown  the  scowling  firmament  ; 
His  clansmen  charged,  lo  !  Autumn's  hosts  o'er- 
thrown ! 

0  mighty  Monarch  of  the  Virgin  crown  ! 
Magician-artist !  whose  light  breath  can  chain 

The  pulsing  sea,  yet  deigns,  without  a  frown, 
To  paint  weird  pictures  on  the  humble  pane  ! 

1  loved  fair  Summer  and  the  Autumn  brown, 
•     But  hail  and  worship  thy  majestic  reign  ! 


AT     THE     GATES    OF    NOON. 


OTHOU  sweet  bird  !  that  in  the  ear  of  Dawn 
Dost  pour  thy  joyous  and  melodious  lay 
As  glides  the  vital  current  of  the  Day 
Into  the  pallid  veins  of  hill  and  lawn, 
Restoring  all  the  Winter's  lance  had  drawn, 
While    he,   rude  surgeon,  o'er  the  land  held 

sway, 

I  envy  thee,  and  oh  !  would  soar  away 
Beyond  the  limit  of  this  mortal  bawn 
And  let  my  soul  melt  out  in  song  with  thee  ! 
Thou  hast  no  pain,  nor  didst  thou  ever  know 
The  soundless  deeps  or  chilling  peaks  of  woe  ; 
Thy  wing  is  chainless  and  thy  spirit  .free  ! 
Around  thee  dance  the  clouds  in  ecstasy, 
Blue  bending  skies  thy  star-strewn  canopy. 


NATURE    WORSHIP. 


IRature  IKflorsblp. 

TO  A.  G.  C. 

TV  /\  Y  soul  is  weary  of  the  city  street — 

*  "  *     The  din  and  clamor  of  its  crowded  way, 

Eternal  sameness  of  the  night  and  day, 
The  pomp  and  poverty  and  pride  I  meet, 
The  Crime  new-ermined  and  the  gilt  Deceit 

Like  vultures  swooping  to  devour  their  prey, 

While  Justice,  blinking  in  the  social  ray, 
Beholds  the  vesture,  but  forgets  the  cheat. 
Oh,  I  would  fly  to  some  untrod  retreat, 

Where  Nature,  regal,  holds  untrammelled  sway, 
And  kneel  in  worship  at  her  virgin  feet, 

Recount  her  glories  and  her  laws  obey  ; 
Nor  cease  to  honor  till  my  last  heart-beat — 

Till  heaven  commingles  with  the  earth's  decay. 

With  her  already  !  on  her  forest  throne 
I  quaff  the  nectar  of  the  balmy  air — 
Distilled  through  meshes  of  her  golden  hair — 

From  parting  Summer's  sacred  censer  blown. 


1 ; 


AT    THE    GATES    OF     NOON. 

The  anthem  grand,  the  sweet,  weird  monotone 
Of  harpers  ancient,  blending  soft  and  rare, 
Upwells  around  me,  till  the  demon,  Care, 

Is  crushed  forever  and  his  reign  o'erthrown. 

O  Courtis!  wert  thou  with  me!  thou,  whose  mind 
Is  pure  and  lofty  as  this  gorgeous  scene  ; 

Whose  fervid  soul  and  fancy  unconfmed 

Would  limn  the  splendor  of  the  gold  and  green, 

Swayed  by  the  footsteps  of  the  wooing  wind — 
I  would  be  happy  as  the  gods,  I  ween. 

Come,  come,  in  spirit !    Lo  !  the  dawn  appears, 

And  Day's  proud  monarch  mounts  the  rose- 
strewn  skies  ! 

The  startled  Night  withdraws  her  sentry-eyes, 
But  yields  the  diamonds  of  her  midnight  tears 
To  gem  the  billows  of  assailing  spears 

That  press  around  her  as  she  westward  Mies  ; 

Yet  on  the  rampart  where  she,  fighting,  dies, 
The  victor  Day-god  curbs  his  charioteers. 
Gleams  brighter  now  the  forest's  autumn  dress 

As  down  his  vast  and  pillared  sanctuary 
The  lucid  legions  of  the  Morning  press, 

Where  Nature  reigns  in  cloistered  majesty  ! 
Oh,  I'm  too  happy  in  this  happiness, 

And  long  to  share  it  with  the  world  and  thee  i 


SPRING. 


Spring. 

PRIXG  walked  across  the  meadows  yester- 

clay, 

And  whispered  to  the  flowers  on  the  way  : 
Awake,  arise,  the  Winter  night  is  fled, 
The    milky  sheets  that  wrapped  your    dreamy 

bed 

Dissolve  and  float  away,  like  jeweled  lawn, 
To  deck  the  forehead  of  approaching  Dawn. 
The    flowers  looked  up  and  smiled  a  greeting 

sweet ; 
Some  blushed  for  joy,  and  some  grew  pale  to 

meet 

Their  mother  so  beloved  and  lost  so  long ; 
From  out  the  brake  rolled  clear  the  bluebird's 

song, 

And  Nature,  hopeful  at  the  sudden  boom, 
Recalled  her  artists  to  the  idle  loom, 
While  onward  wheeled  along  the  misty  way 
The  gorgeous  chariot  of  the  perfect  day. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


TTbe  /IDtsstuQ  Spring. 


PRING  walked  across  the  meadows  yester- 
day," 

So  sang  a  rhymer  many  days  ago, 

But  where  she  wandered  no  one  seems  to  know; 
Most  certain  'tis  the  'maiden  went  astray, 
Or  from  exposure  died  upon  the  way. 

Perchance  she  met  her  old  and  bitter  foe, 

Grim  Winter  !  and  he  basely  laid  her  low 
For  daring  to  usurp  his  lordly  sway. 
The  flowers  are  weeping  for  their  mother  now, 

And  hide  their  faces  in  the  pallid  grass, 
Remorseless  on,  with  awful  voice  and  brow, 

The  wicked  tyrant  and  his  cohorts  pass. 
Revenge  !  revenge  !  the  hills  and  valleys  vow, 

While  birds  sob  low  the  solemn  requiem  mass. 


16 


SUMMER'S     SERMON. 


Summer's  Sermon. 

'"TO-DAY  all  Nature  speaks  the  Word  of  God, 
*       And  mirrors  well  His  love  and  purity  : 
The    fragrant    snow    upon    the  spreading 

tree, 

The  tear-eyed  violets  clinging  to  the  sod, 
The  daisied  grass,  by  careless  footsteps  trod, 

The  forest  vast  that  claps  its  hands  in  glee 

To  every  breeze  that  wooes  caressingly — 
Are  types  of  Him,  and  blossom  at  His  nod. 
Weak  man  alone,  created  lord  of  all, 

Preordered  for  the  highest  destiny, 
Rebels,  and,  doubting,  flings  a  sable  pall 

Across  the  bosom  of  divinity. 
O  God  of  love  !     How  awful  is  the  fall 

From  Nature's  praise  to  man's  foul  blasphemy ! 


AT    THE    GATP;S    OF     XOOX. 


T_T  AIL,  Star-eyed  goddess  of  the  verdant  gown 
*  *      And  rose-twined  coronet,  Imperial  June  ! 

Thy  subject,  I.   Beneath  thy  argent  moon, 
Or  ardent  sun,  where  willows  weave  a  crown 
O'er  laughing  streams,  or  where  huge  mountains 
frown, 

When   Nature  sweeps  her  harp  and  wakes  a 
tune, 

Or  all  Creation  shudders  in  a  swoon, 
To  thee,  in  worship,  shall  I  bow  me  down  ! 
I  would  be  near  thee  in  the  forest  dim, 

In  woods  entangled,  on  the  mystic  sea, 
Thy  loyal  page,  to  raise  thy  garment's  hem 

Across  the  bosom  of  the  dewy  lea ; 
Creation's  priest  thy  peerless  brow  to  gem, 

And  Nature's  voice  to  hail  thy  majesty. 


18 


EXIT    OF     SUMMER. 


H 


Biit  of  Summer. 

ER  verdant  robes  around  her,  Summer  drew 
And  vanished,  like  the  shadow  of  a  beam, 
Within  the  melting  landscape  of  a  dream, 
From  all  the  scenes  she  graced  and  loved  and 

knew  ; 

To  grieving  Nature  one  fond  kiss  she  threw— 
One  farewell  kiss — and  like  a  sunset  gleam, 
It  touched  the  mountain's  lip,  the  seabound 

stream, 

And  stamped  Creation  with  its  golden  hue. 
Adieu,  enchantress  !  Queen  of  love,  adieu  ! 

Though  fled  is  beauty  and  the  soul  of  song, 
Shall  Memory  oft  revisit  and  review 

Thy  vacant  throne  and  glance  thy  halls  along, 
While  loyal  Fancy  will  thy  steps  pursue 

Through  shattered  ranks  of  Autumn's  russet 
throng. 


19 


AT    THE    GATES     OF     NOON. 


Compensation. 

I    IKE  breath  of  slander,  Winter's  herald  came, 
*-*     And  whispered  low  amid  the  leafy  bowers 
The  poisonous  words,  that  quick  the  bab 
bling  hours 

Spoke  oft  aloud,  with  ever  added  shame, 
To  sully  Summer  and  her  daughters'  name. 
With  grief  intense,  soon  drooped  the  gentle 

flowers, 
And  graveward    sank    in    fair    and    fragrant 

showers, 

While  Nature  wept,  apart,  their  blighted  fame. 
Sage  Autumn  listened  to  her  sister's  woe, 

And,  moved  to  pity,  kissed  each  pining  child, 
When  lo  !  a  ruddy  and  a  golden  glow 

Leaped  to  each  brow  and  lip  and  bosom  mild; 
And  hosts  that  shrank  to  meet  the  jealous  foe 
In  gorgeous  glory,  looked  abroad  and  smiled. 


ARMENIA.— A     PLEA. 


Hrmenfa— a  plea. 

THOU  Protector  of  the  poor  and  weak, 
The  Friend  alone  on  Whom  the  crushed 

can  call 

For  aid  and  justice  when  the  strong  inthrall, 
At  Whose  high  throne  the  wronged  will  never 

seek 
For  right  in  vain,  hear'st  Thou  Thy  children 

speak 

In  prayer  aloud  :  "Oh,  let  Thy  mercy  fall 
Round  poor  Armenia  like  an  iron  wall, 
And  stay  the  murder-hand,  the  victim-shriek. 
Or    else,  O  God  !  vouchsafe    them  strength   to 

wield, 

For  life  and  virtue  and  their  native  plain, 
The  sword  avenging  and  unsparing — steeled 

Against  this  monster  and  his  frightful  train  ; 
Nor  curb  their  fury  till  the  doom  is  sealed 
Of  hell's  vicegerent  and  his  demon  reign  ! 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Ibawtborne's  JBirtbplace. 

""PIS  not  a  vast  nor  venerable  pile 
1       Where  fays  and  goblins  in  the  moonlight 
dance ; 

Modest  and  meek  it  meets  the  pilgrims'  glance, 
The  critic's  malice  and  the  cynic's  smile  ; 

Yet  'neath  its  roof  the  monarch  of  Romance 
First  saw  the  world  his  matchless  genius  swayed, 
Its  windows  through  the  July  sunshine  strayed 

To  touch  his  forehead  with  its  gleaming  lance. 
First  here  the  lightning  of  his  thoughts  revealed 

The  teeming  valley  of  his  fiction  lore, 
The  fancy-fountains  of  his  mind  unsealed 

And  let  the  deathless  story-streams  outpour. 
Hawthorne  !  In  reverence  ever  shall  we  trace 
And  sacred  hold  thy  humble  natal  place. 


SUNSET     ON     GALLOWS     HILL. 


Sunset  on  Gallows  Dtll, 

T  T  IS  crimson  shield  the  regal  Lord  of  Day, 
*  *      Triumphant  marching  to  the  Night's  em 
brace, 

One  moment  poised  above  the  pallid  face 
Of  that  lone  hill,  whereon,  the  records  say, 
The  wizard  victims,  with  their  lives,  did  pay 

The  debt  of  frenzy — to  the  times'  disgrace  ; 

And  lo  !  its  snow-robes  are  vermilion  lace  ! 
Or  is  it  blood,  or  but  his  parting  ray  ? 
Entranced  I  shuddered  at  the  awful  light 

And  pondered  well  the  wondrous  mystery ; 
Then  turned  to  lethe,  or  a  new  delight, 

Unto  the  bosom  of  the  distant  sea. 
Bright  scarlet  discs  were  all  that  met  my  sight 

On  sea  and  shore,  on  naked  spire  and  tree  ! 


2T, 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 


TJQasbinoton. 

'"THOU  mighty  monarch  of  a  people's  heart ! 
*       Creator — Father — of  a  Nation  free, 

In  war  or  peace  alike  in  majesty 
And  grace  didst  act  the  statesman-hero's  part — 
Rending    Oppression's    chain,    and    Freedom's 

chart, 

Bequeathing  stainless  to  posterity  ! 
All  nations  bend  in  homage  unto  thee  : 
Thou  taughtst  triumphant  Peace  through  War's 

dread  art. 
With  grateful  hearts  and  unvexed  minds  to-day 

We  turn  to  thee,  immortal  Washington  ! 
And  proudly  crown  thee  with  the  deathless  bay, 

Amidst  the  blaze  of  Freedom's  fulgent  sun  ; 
With  vision  lifted  to  the  summit-way— 
Thy  country's  grandest  glory  yet  unwon  ! 


NIGHT. 


\I  7HAT  art  thou,  O  vast,  mysterious  night  ! 
Spreading  thy  sable  wings  o'er  sky  and 

earth, 
And  clasping  mundane  things  with  starry 

girth, 

Dewy  and  noiseless  as  thy  onward  flight  ? 
What  shoreless  dee]),  or  mystic  mountain  height, 
Beheld  thee  rise,  or  cradled  thee  at  birth  ? 
Art  thou  a  mask  of  day,  and  in  thy  mirth 
Or  anger,  give  or  hold,  the  boon  of  light  ? 
Yet  thou  wert  ever  beautiful  to  me, 

In  joy,  or  grief,  or  thunder-speaking  rage  ! 
Hope,  in  thy  countless  eyes,  and  faith  I  see, 

I  never  yet  beheld  in  Day's  bright  page. 
Thou  art  the  shadow  of  eternity  !  — 

Though  I  am  neither  poet,  priest  nor  sage. 


25 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


jfatber  flfeurpb^  in  '98. 

I  N  Boolavogue,  his  flame-swept  church  beside, 

*•      Stood  Father  Murphy  on  Whitsunday  morn, 

His  hunted  flock,  from  out  each  cave  and 

tarn, 

Around  him  gathered,  like  a  surging  tide. 
"O  Father  !  speak  the  promised   'Word,'  "  they 

cried. 

"Behold  our  kindred  and  our  homesteads  torn, 
The  desolation  of  our  land  forlorn  !  "- 
His  sword  he  drew,  and  "Follow  me,"  replied. 
How  well  he  battled  on  the  Wexford  heights, — 
Avenged  Dunlavin  and  blood-drenched  Car- 
new, 
Bore  down  the  yeomen  in  the  bloody  fights 

Of  Inniscorthy  and  of  Carrigrue, 
And  roused  the  nation  to  regain  its  rights, — 
To-day  is  echoed  all  creation  through  ! 


26 


JUSTICE 


Justice. 

T  SAW  approaching  from  a  mountain  height 
*•      A  radiant  maiden  with  majestic  mien, 

Bearing  aloft  a  sword  of  lightning  sheen 
That  cleft  the  meshes  of  surrounding  night. 
Before  her  fled  Wrong's  minions  in  affright ; 
Behind,  the  toiling  millions  stood  serene 
And    viewed    the    triumph    of    the   unknown 

queen, 

Bent  to  their  task  and  claimed  no  other  right. 
Oh,  who  art  thou  ?  I  cried  in  fear  and  awe, 
And  what  thy  name,  and  whence  thy  potent 

power 
So  far  transcending  human  might  and  law  — 

So  well  adjusted  to  the  place  and  hour  ? 
"The  worker's  Right,  long  sought  and  long  de 
nied, 
Am  I  ;  my  name  is  Justice,"  she  replied. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOOX 


IReverie. 

On  visiting  the  favorite  seat  of  O.  W.  Holmes  at  Beverly  Farms. 

|\ TIGHT  gracefully  came  with  me  as  I  strayed 
*          Where  often  mused  the  genial  prince  of 

song, 
While  yet  his  hand  the  breathing  chords 

among, 

The  lofty  strains  awoke  that  nations  swayed, 
And  still  are  echoed  by  each  hill  and  glade. 
A  flowery  wreath  May  wove  our  path  along, 
And   stars  danced   near,  a  gleaming,  glinting 

throng, 

Like  jewelled  crown  upon  a  black-haired  maid. 
Immortal  Holmes  !  thy  spirit  sure  was  nigh  ; 

The  balmy  air  was  thrilled  with  soothing  strain 
Unheard  since  thou  didst  leave  us  for  the  sky, 
And  could  be  breathed  by  only  thee  again  : 
The  place  enchanted  seemed.     But  ah  !  my  sigh 
Transfixed  the  silence  with  a  shaft  of  pain  ! 


28 


THE     BIRTH     OF     LIGHT. 


Birtb  of 


I  X  darkness  tombed  was  earth  and  all  mankind, 
*•      The  Soul  immortal  lay  a  garden  waste 

Wherein    the    passions    on    a    throne    were 

placed 

Unchecked,  unsatisfied  and  unconfined 
Through  all  the  Seasons  of  the  ruling  mind, 

Since  disobedience  and  the  mortal  taste 

Of  fruit  forbidden  Eden's  lord  debased, 
And  death  outscattered  to  each  wailing  wind. 
But  lo  !  afar,  amid  the  regnant  gloom 

Proclaims  a  star  the  light  of  life  new-born  — 
That  man  reseated  shall  again  resume 

The  sway  triumphant  of  the  primal  morn  ; 
And  faith  shall  nourish  to  eternal  bloom 

The  seed  supernal  in  all  hearts  forlorn. 


AT     THE     GATES    OF    NOON. 


%ox>e  Xiefc. 

'"TO  me  Love  came  one  summer  day  and  said  : 

"I  will  be  with  thee  through  all  future  time, 

To    cheer    thy    pathway    and    to    grace    thy 

rhyme, 

And  sweet  spells  weave  around  thy  nightly  bed." 
On  wings  the  fleetest  golden  Summer  sped, 
And  bannered  Autumn,  Nature's  queen  sub 
lime, 

Majestic  passed,  and  forth  in  haughty  prime 
Grim  Winter  came,  but  lo  !  Love,  false,  is  fled. 
Love  loves  the  essence  of  the  summer  rose 
And  long  delays  where  wealth   and    beauty 

meet — 
Where    tinsel     glitters     and     where     pleasure 

glows, 

Nor  flies  the  presence  of  alloyed  deceit : 
But  when  joys  vanish,  or  the  tempest  blows, 
His  feet  are  nimble  and  his  wings  are  fleet. 


CHARLES     A.    DANA. 


Cbarles  B.  Dana. 

NOT  weep  shall  we  thy  passing,  Dana  great  ! 
Though  wert  thou  brightest  of  the  brilliant 

men, 
Who  gave  the  press  their  mighty  minds 

and  pen 

To  upward  lift  it  to  its  high  estate  ; 
But  long  shall  linger  by  the  sunset  gate, 
That  bars  thee  ever  from  our  mortal  ken, 
To  list  the  throbbing  of  thy  day's  wild  din, 
And  pray  such  other  will  our  God  create  ! 
Thou  wert  beloved,  O  Dana  !  e'en  by  foes ; 
By  those,  much  more,  who  bowed  to  thy  be 
hest  ; 
The  genius  budding  found  in  thee  repose, 

Nor  left  the  lowly  from  thy  side  distressed. 
Who  longest    knew  thee  most   will  mourn  thy 

close  — 
Oh,  may  thy  spirit  find  eternal  rest ! 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON". 


IRortb 


"  A  W-^-Y  '  "  said  haughty  (General  Gage,  in  Bos- 

**•      ton  by  the  sea, 
"And,  Leslie,  lead  three  hundred  men  to  Salem 

instantly, 
And    capture   all  the   cannon  there,   and  bring 

them  to  this  town, 
Nor  brook  the  least  resistance  from  a  traitor  to 

the  crown." 


Midwinter's    sun    was  gazing   down  on   Massa 

chusetts  Bay, 
On  stern  and  snow-capped  Marblehead  reposed 

the  noontide  ray, 
As  from  their  ship  to  Lovis  Cove  and  Roman's 

sheltered  strand, 
In  martial  pomp  and  bright  array,  came  Leslie 

and  his  band. 


NORTH     BRIDGE. 

The  men  of  Marblehead  beheld  this  herald  of 
the  storm, 

And  swift  to  Salem  Pedrick  sped  to  spread  the 
loud  alarm  ; 

The  bells  were  rung — the  drums  were  beat — the 
people  rushed  from  prayer, 

Determination  in  each  face — their  trusty  weap 
ons  bare. 

"North  River  Bridge  !  "  Lo  !  hrm  it  stands  in  its 
accustomed  place, 

While  onward  sweep  the  British  ranks  in  awe- 
inspiring  pace. 

A  moment's  halt,  then  Leslie's  voice,  in  awful 
rage,  outpealed 

"Forward  !  And,  Foster,  point  me  where  the 
cannons  are  concealed  !  " 

"Halt !  "  thundered    gallant   Pickering — behind 

him  forty  men  ; 
"Who  dares  attempt  to  cross  North  Bridge  shall 

never  breathe  again." 
"We    go,"    was   Leslie's  bold  reply  "to  do  the 

King's  command, 
And   all  who   rashly  interfere,  we'll   shoot  down 

where  they  stand." 


33 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 

On  Gallows  Hill  the  evening  sun  shot  clown  his 

crimson  bars, 
And  faintly  in  the  ocean    blue,    regleamed  the 

Hesper  stars ; 
Her  crystal  lamp,  the  crescent  moon  hung  o'er 

the  tidal  flood — 
Defiant   and  unyielding  still  the  hostile  leaders 

stood. 

"Fire  !  "  rang  the  dreadful  order  from  the  British 

captain  then, 
"Hold  !    Hold  !    beware  !  "    cried    Captain   Felt, 

"  'tis  death  to  all  your  men  !  " 
The    soldiers    paused,     and     Barnard    spoke — 

"Peace  !  peace  !  there  is  a  way, 
If    Pickering    and   his    men    agree,    to  end  this 

wicked  fray." 

Night  flung  her  sable  curtains  down  and  wrapt 
the  bloodless  scene, 

And  Leslie  back  to  Boston  fled,  in  double  quick, 
I  ween  ; 

The  moon  and  stars  serenely  smiled  on  man 
hood's  flag  unfurled, 

And  Echo  slept,  awaiting  yet  the  shot  that 
shook  the  world  ! 


34 


THE     BATTLE     OF     BUNKER     HILL. 


ZTbe  Battle  of  Eunfeer  1bill. 

A  T  last  the  cry  "To  arms  !  To  arms  !  "  through 
**•        Lexington  outrang, 
And  Concord  knew  the  hour  was  come,  and  to 

her  weapon  sprang. 
No  need  to  tell  how7  foe  met  foe  and  grappled 

on  that  morn — 
Amid    the    shattered   British  ranks  our  liberty 

was  born. 

Now  face  to  face  the  foemen  stand — defiance  in 
each  eye, 

Impatient  for  the  battle  shock — resolved  to  win 
or  die  ; 

The  awful  story  has  been  told  by  pens  of  mas 
ter  skill, 

Yet  I  shall  dare  again  review  that  day  on  Bun 
ker  Hill. 


35 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Uprose  the  Dawn  and  westward  rolled  the  cur 
tains  of  the  night, 

And  lo  !  brave  Prescott  and  his  men  upon  the 
fort-crowned  height, 

Beneath  the  friendly  stars  they  toiled  that  ram 
part  to  upraise, 

Whose  frowning  brow  the  British  fills  with 
anger  and  amaze. 

Serene  the  monarch  of  the  sky  from  out  his 
highest  tower 

Surveys  the  marshalled  pomp  and  pride  of  Brit 
ain's  haughty  power  ; 

Serene  he  glances  on  the  hill,  where,  few  but 
undismayed, 

The  rudely-weaponed  patriots  for  battle  stand 
arrayed. 

Hark  to  the  cannon's  thunder-crash  !  the  shells' 

red  lightning  see  ! 
And  like  a  surging  sea  of  flame  sweeps  Pigott's 

infantry  ; 
List  how  the  god  of  slaughter  laughs  from  river, 

hill  and  shore  ! 
Oh  !  never  rolled  a  battle-wave  so  charged  with 

death  before. 


THE     BATTLE    OF     BUNKER     HILL. 

An  earthquake  shudders  underneath  where 
Howe's  battalions  come 

Flame-sheeted  like  a  forest-tire ;  yet  Prescott's 
fort  is  dumb  ; 

And  Stark,  unmoved  as  granite  cliff,  awaits  the 
crimson  tide  — 

It  breaks.  Ah,  God  !  within  its  foam  five  hun 
dred  Britons  died. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Liberty  !  the  fight  is  fought 

and  won  ! 
And  lo  !  before  the  volunteers  the  royal  legions 

run — 
Hurrah  !    hurrah  ! — but    see  !    they    halt ;    they 

rally  and  attack, 
And  Bunker  Hill  has  hurled  again  the  roaring 

columns  back. 

Gage  sees,  afar,  the  day  is  lost — an  empire  to 
his  king — 

And  dashes  to  the  scene  with  all  the  troops  that 
he  can  bring. 

Awful  his  rage  and  mad  despair,  terrific  his  com 
mand  : 

•"Go,  fire  the  town  from  end  to  end,  nor  let  one 
timber  stand  !  " 


37 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 

The  god  of  day  affrighted  shrank  behind  a  sable 

cloud, 
The  concave  heaven  mirrored    back  the  city's 

hery  shroud, 
A  tremor  quivered  through  the  hill  where  fell 

the  tearing  shell ; 
Yet  Prescott  pours  his  iron  hail  and  keeps  the 

rampart  well. 

On  !  on  !  the  British  columns  press  o'er  dying 

and  o'er  dead, 
Flame-bordered  in  the  front  and  rear,  rlame-cur- 

tained  overhead. 
"Fight,    win    or    die,"    Howe's   battle  cry,   and 

Prescott's  "No  retreat ;  " 
But,  ah  !  his  waves  of  victory  are  crested  with 

defeat ! 

Secure  and  loved   for    evermore    the  fame  and 

name  shall  be 
Of  all  who  fought  and  bled  that  clay  to  give  us 

liberty  ; 
But    traced    in    golden    letters    bright    upon    a 

deathless  chart, 
The  valiant  Warren's  name  shall  live  within  the 

Nation's  heart. 


MARBLEHEAD. 


UPON  thy  fort,  old  Marblehead, 
I  stood,  as  from  her  orient  bed 
The  Morning  rose,  and  blushing  sped, 

In  majesty, 

To  where  thy  rocky  arms  outspread 
Embrace  the  sea. 

Alone  I  viewed  the  gorgeous  Day 
With  jewelled  sandals  tread  the  bay — 
Climb  up  and  down  each  craggy  way 

And  valley  wild — 
Till  all  revealed  before  me  lay, 

This  earthquake  child. 

Renowned,  romantic,  rugged  town, 
Upon  thy  face  the  smile  and  frown 
Of  Nature  chase  each  other  down 

From  field  to  shore, 
And  gems  of  art  thy  forehead  crown 

Thy  sons  adore. 


39 


AT    THE    GATES     OF     NOON. 

Historic  muse  !  inspire  my  strain 

To  paint  the  old  heroic  reign 

Of  this  quaint  village  by  the  main, 

And  tell  its  tale 
Which  time  and  ocean's  rage  in  vain 

Assailed,  assail. 

Roll  back  the  curtains  of  the  past, 
The  fisher-fleets  with  nets  outcast, 
The  hardy  seamen  at  the  mast, 

Let  me  behold, 
In  peaceful  toil  or  War's  dread  blast, 

Reliant,  bold. 

'Tis  done  :  and  lo  !  most  gallantly 
The  valiant  Mugford's  bark  I  see 
Careering  o'er  the  vassal  Sea 

Like  meteor  flame, 
The  captured  British  ship  alee — 

Ah  !  dear-bought  fame  ! 

Brave  Glover  on  the  1  )ela\vare 
'Mid   icy  crags,  his  weapons  bare, 
Inspiring  all  with  courage  rare 

To  dare  and  do, 
Or  guiding  Burgoyne's  shattered  square 

New  England  through. 


4o 


MARBLEHEAD. 

The  deathless  Constitution  ride, 
Triumphant  monarch  of  the  tide, 
The  sinking  Guerriere  beside, 

While  fearless  Hull 
With  Russell,  Cowell,  Prince,  divide 

The  honors  full. 

The  privateers,  cyclonic,  sweep 
The  boastful  Britons  from  the  deep 
They  claimed  to  own  and  meant  to  keep- 

( )  conflict  dread  ! 
Ten  hundred  widows,  orphans,  weep 

The  deathless  dead  !  — 

Th'  immortal  brave  who  died  to  free 
Their  land  from  Britain's  tyranny 
And  plant  the  flag  of  liberty 

On  sea  and  shore  — 
The  refuge  of  oppressed  to  be 

For  evermore. 

Sleep,  heroes,  sleep.      A  nation's  love 
With  Freedom  guard  your  graves  above. 
The  starry  banner  that  you  wove 

In  War's  red  loom 
Floats  free  to-day  o'er  Lovis  Cove, 

And  will  till  doom. 


AT     THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 

The  scene  is  changed.      Rebellion  red 
Has  dared  to  lift  his  hideous  head. 
The  bugle  call  is  scarcely  sped 

Upon  its  way — 
The  gallant  men  of  Marblehead 

Rush  to  the  fray  ! 

And  never  did  a  braver  brand 

Flash  forth  for  Right  and  native  land 

Than  quivered  in  brave  Martin's  hand — 

Than  Boardman  held — 
Than  answered  Phillips'  stern  command 

Till  wrong  was  quelled. 

And  once  again,  alone  I  stand 
Where  "Castle  Rock"  with  iron  hand 
Repels  old  Neptune's  charging  band 

While  daylight  dies 
And  Night  and  Luna,  smiling  bland, 

Walk  up  the  skies. 

Good  night !  farewell,  historic  shore  ! 
Thy  story  and  thy  "Churn's"  wild  roar 
Will  haunt  my  soul  for  evermore 

With  dreams  divine — 
Will  live  within  my  bosom's  core, 

While  life  is  mine  ! 


42 


H 


OLIVER     WENDELL     HOLMES. 


©liver  TKflen&eU  Ibolmes. 

IS  songs  are  sung  ;  the  golden  lyre  is  mute 
That  thrilled  the  nations  with  the  soul  of 


song; 

Death  laid  his  finger  on  the  breathing  lute 
And  froze  the  melody  its  chords  among. 

Like  regal  sun  the  master-singer  came  ; 

Fair,  tear-gemmed   Nature  mirrored  his  sweet 

light ; 
Bird,  flower  and  stream  laughed  in  the  lambent 

flame  ; 
Man's  sorrows  faded  in  the  robes  of  night. 

Meridian  day,  his  full-orbed  genius  shone — 
No  cloud  to  mar  the  fields  of  smiling  blue  ; 

Triumphant  rolled  his  crystal  chariot  on 

Where    eye    reveals    her  gorgeous    throne   to 
view. 

Resplendent  still  his  crown  of  glory  gleams 
Where  pencilled  tints  of  earth  and  sky  unite  ; 

Gay  Autumn  blushes  in  his  farewell  beams; 
The  steel-gray  curtain  falls — and  it  is  night. 


AT    THK     GATES     OF     NOON 


5>r.  Hmos  ifoowe 


]\|()T  when  the  chain  is  rent  apart 
^          That  links  Hereafter  to  the  Here 

And  all  we  hold  on  earth  most  dear 
Is  severed  from  the  bleeding  heart  : 

Not  in  that  moment,  sorrow-tossed, 

Though  Grief  may  weep  with  thousand  eyes, 

("an  \ve  compute  and  realize 
The  depth  and  height  of  what  is  lost. 

Nor  can  our  city,  bending  low 
In  grief  beside  the  silent  clay 
Of  him  who  brought  a  cheering  rax- 

To  many  a  home  and  heart  of  woe. 

But  in  the  calm  of  after-day, 

When  Reason  sadly  mounts  her  throne, 
And  lists,  in  vain,  the  gentle  tone 

That  Comfort  shed  alon<r  our  wav. 


44 


DK     AMOS     HOWE    JOIIX.SO.V. 

Though  Science  weeps,  not  she  alone — 
Religion  takes  her  by  the  hand, 
And  leads  her  where  the  Virtues  stand 

1'ewailing  their  protector  gone. 

Peace  to  thy  shade  !      Immortal  rest  ! 

Thou  wert  a  friend  unto  the  poor. 

Such  epitaph  will  time  endure 
Av  !  longer  than  the  monarch's  crest. 


45 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Grant  anfc  H>eatb. 

'T'HK  hand  of   Dawn,  with  pencil  bright, 

Was  tracing  morning  o'er  the  sky 
When  Grant  upon  McGregor's  height 
Beheld  grim  Death  in   armor  nigh. 

"Oh,  hero  of  undying  fame  ! 

Who  saved  the  Union,  peace  restored  ! 
Grant !  Victor  !  Chief  !  on  Mars'  red  plain, 

Yield,  yield  to  Death  thy  flaming  sword  !  " 

Spoke  Grant ;  and  Valor  sat  enthroned 

Upon  his  brow's  majestic  held. 
"What  Victor  never  claimed  before 

To  thee,  King  Death,  my  sword  I  yield." 


46 


DR.     ROBERT     DWVER    JOYCE. 


2>r.  IRobert  2Dw\?er 

Let  me,  for  love,  let  me  be  unforgot  — Joyce. 

r\IVINE  Apollo!  grant  to  me 
•"•^     One  spark  of  thy  celestial  fire  ; 

I  fain  would  wake  the  golden  lyre 
To  Dr.  Joyce's  memory  ! 

By  me  he  would  be  unforgot : 

Though  earth,  again,  should  ring  his  fame, 
And  every  tongue  pronounce  his  name, 

Though  all  his  race  remember  not ! 

To-day  I  passed  the  city  street 

That  erst  re-echoed  to  his  tread, 

And  musing  on  the  spirit  fled, 
An  aged  friend  I  chanced  to  meet. 

"Do  you  remember  Joyce  ?"  I  said. 

"Joyce  ?  Joyce  ?    the  man  that  hung  my  bell  ? 

Yes,  yes,  I  knew  him  very  well, 
But  I  forgot  —  you  know  he's  dead  ! ! !  " 


47 


AT     THK     GATES     OK     NOON. 

Shame  on  the  city,  race  and  land 
That  claimed  him  in  his  regal  hour 
And  basked  in  sunshine  of  his  power 

But  dead,  forget  his  genius  grand  ! 

Ah  !  Time  shall  do  him  justice  meet, 

And  Fame  shall  grant  him  rightful  place 
The  greatest  singer  of  his  race 

That  ever  trod  a  Boston  street. 


EMMET. 


Emmet. 

Head  at  the  Emmet  Anniversary  Celebration  at  Monument  Hall, 
Charlestown,  March  4,  1897. 

I. 

|\]()  tears  we'll  shed  for  the  deathless  dead,— 
1  ^      The  hero  long  departed, — 
Xor  shall  we  moan  o'er  the  nameless  stone 
Where  sleeps  the  noble-hearted. 

We  dare  not  weep  till  the  foe  we  sweep 
From  the  land  for  which  he  perished, 

Xor  dare  we  moan  till  the  scrolless  stone 
Shall  bear  the  tribute  cherished. 

We  come  to-day  on  his  grave  to  lay 

The  martyr's  wreath  of  glory, 
And  back  again  on  the  heart  and  brain 

Swells  all  the  tragic  story — 

The  bleeding  land  and  the  brave  sons  banned 
Who  would  from  wrong  defend  her  ; 

The  scaffold  grim  where  they  mangled  him, 
The  peerless  youth  and  tender ; 


49 


AT     THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 

The  last  request  to  be  left  at  rest, 
Unknown  his  aims  and  station, 

Till  times  and  men  should  rise  again, 
And  make  his  land  a  nation. 

Here  by  his  tomb  in  the  March  eve's  gloom 
We  kneel,  the  young  and  hoary, 

And  vow  to  write  on  his  gravestone  white 
His  name — a  line  of  glory  ! 

II. 

He  saw  his  own  beloved  land 
Writhe  in  the  tyrant's  iron  hand, 
And  this  his  spirit  could  not  stand  ; 

He  saw  the  merciless  and  strong 
Relock  the  chain,  apply  the  thong, 
His  soul  rebelled  against  the  wrong  ; 

He  saw  the  captive,  poor  and  weak, 
The  tear  of  sorrow  on  her  cheek, 
And  dared  one  comfort-word  to  speak  ; 

He  saw  the  captors,  cruel,  stern, 
The  kindly  word  of  comfort  spurn, 
With  new-born  fury  on  her  turn. 


EMMET. 

Then  rose  the  spirit  of  his  race 
In  splendid  majesty  and  grace, 
And  wrote  defiance  on  his  face  ! 

On  !  like  the  fkry  breath  of  storm, 
Right's  battered  mail  around  his  form, 
He  rushed  into  the  conflict  warm  ! 


He  cared  not  what  his  fate  might  be, 
His  land  was  chained,  she  must  be  free 
He  went,  where  beckoned  Liberty— 


Where  called  the  voices  of  the  dead, 
Who  in  the  ancient  struggle  led, 
And  in  the  cause  of  Freedom  bled. 


But  ah  !  he  did  not  see  the  woe 

That  surged  on  hearts  like  ocean's  flow, 

The  day  that  saw  his  overthrow  ! 


Nor  did  he  see  the  shaft  of  pain 

That  pierced  the  heart  and  rent  the  brain 

And  laid  his  idol  'mid  the  slain  ! 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 
III. 

But    his    name    will   live  forever,   and   his  fame 

shall  never  die, 
And   his  blood  from  earth   appealing,  shall   for 

vengeance  ever  cry  ! 
And  the  Gael  will  some  day  answer  as  a  unit  to 

the  call, 
And   march  on  the  Saxon  foeman   like  a  moving 

granite  wall  ! 

From   North   and   South   we'll  gather,  from   the 

Kastland  and  the  \Yest, 
In    each    hand    the    sword    of    Justice,    Right's 

strong  shield  upon  each  breast ; 
And  we'll  sweep  the  foe  before  us,  as  the  cyclone 

sweeps  the  chaff, 
And  we'll   make  our  land  a   Nation,  and — write 

Kmmet's  epitaph  ! 


JOHN     BOYLE     O'REILLY. 


3obn 


JOY  died  within  a  people's  heart 
^      The  day  his  noble  spirit  tied  ; 
And  yet  O'Reilly  is  not  dead, 
Though  Nature  claims  the  mortal  part. 

He  lives  in  every  word  and  act 

He  ever  did  or  ever  spake  ; 

He  only  sleeps  till  men  awake 
And  find  his  dream  a  living  fact. 

The  singer  cannot  cease  to  be  : 

His  songs  are  seeds  in  fertile  earth, 
\Yhich  in  God's  sunlight  spring  to  birth 

And  blossom  truths  eternally. 

Nor  will  his  fervent  songs  e'er  die, 
So  well  attuned  to  human  right, 
Like  guardian  angels  in  the  night 

They  point  from  danger  to  the  sky. 

Hut  still  we  miss  the  guiding  hand, 
The  friendly  clasp,  the  gentle  tone, 
The  man  who  made  the  wrongs  hij  o.vn 

Of  every  creature,  every  land. 


53 


AT     THE     GATES    OF     NOON. 


Who  fearless  spoke  his  faith  and  mind, 
And  knew  not  color,  creed,  nor  race  ; 
Who  toiled  disunion  to  efface, 

And  link  in  friendship  all  mankind. 

And  yet  the  silent  tear  will  fall 
Above  his  dear,  untimely  grave  ; 
To  all  mankind  his  life  he  gave, 

And  he  was  dearly  loved  by  all. 

Nor  weeps  Humanity  alone  : 

Religion  bends  beside  his  tomb, 
And  Freedom  in  a  robe  of  gloom, 

Bewails  her  stalwart  champion  gone. 

But  deepest  is  poor  Krin's  woe, 
Yet  joy  is  mingled  with  the  sigh, 
And  hope  and  pride  within  her  eye 

Alternate  gloom,  alternate  glow, 


As  proud  Columbia  takes  her  hand 
And  speaks:  "He  was  a  noble  son; 
His  splendid  life,  his  work,  "well  done," 

Will  glory  shed  upon  each  land. 


54 


JOHN     BOYLE     O'REILLY. 

"As  dear  and  true  he  was  to  me 

As  bravest  son  I  ever  bore  ; 

Enchained  and  wronged  upon  thy  shore, 
On  mine  be  worshipped  Liberty. 

"He  brought  no  treason  in  his  heart ; 
Xo  trumpet  patriot  was  he, 
Proclaiming  deathless  love  for  me, 

But  selling  in  the  highest  mart. 

"O  Erin  !  on  from  age  to  age 

His  growing  fame  secure  will  be  ; 
In  Poet-Patriot  history 

His  name  shall  gild  a  leading  page. 

"Then  cease  to  weep,  he  is  not  dead, 

But  risen  to  a  higher  sphere  ; 

Our  highest  tribute  to  him  here 
The  wreath  shall  type  that  crowns  his  head. 


55 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON 


Gbarles  3.  Ikicfebam. 

\17HAT!    Kickham    dead?  —  another    harp- 
string  still, 

'That  poured  to  liberty  the  purest  song; 
Another  hand  that  touched  with  master  skill, 
And    traced  in  burning  truth  our    country's 
wrong  — 

Another  star,  that  shone  throughout  the  night 
And  beamed  the  brightest  when  despair  was 
nigh, 

(Ah  !  quenched  will  soon  be  every  beacon  light, ) 
Has  fallen,  Erin  !  from  thy  darkening  sky  ! 

The  tears  of  sorrow  for  a  Daughter  dead, 

Though  yet  undried  within  the  nation's  eye — 

Ah  !  must  we  mourn  so  soon  his  spirit  fled, 
That  woke  our  laughter  and  our  deepest  sigh  ! 

The  pure  in  spirit,  strong  in  patriot  zeal, 
\Yho  gave  his  country  all  that  he  possessed, 

A  brilliant  genius — heart  as  true  as  steel, 
A  soul  exalted — now  fore'er  at  rest ! 


CHARLES    J.     KICKHAM. 

That  he  was  valiant,  e'en  his  foes  confessed, 
That  he  was  honest — ask  the  prison  cell  ! 

He  fought  her  battles — she  is  unredressed  ! 
He  is  a  victor,  for  he,  fighting,  fell. 

Oh  !  strong  my  faith,  but  ah  !  when  one  by  one 
I  mark  the  heroes  drop  along  the  way ; 

I  feel  like  one  benighted  and  alone, 

When   moon  nor  star  gives  forth  a  cheering 

o  O 

ray. 

And  is  he  dead  ?  no  !  no  !  he  cannot  die 

While    live    the    tones  that  his  proud    harp 
strings  gave, 

For  now  they  thunder  up  to  God-on  high, 
Or  murmur  sweetly  by  each  hill  and  wave  1 

While  e'er  a  heart  doth  throb  for  native  land, 
Or  honest  Patriot  can  grasp  a  spear  ; 

Shall  Ireland  sorrow  for  thy  spirit  grand, 
Thy  tnem'ry  live  within  our  bosoms  here. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


/IDajor 


^F  HOUGH  silent  and  bitter  the  tears  that  we 

shed, 
We   weep    not,  brave  Grady,   because  thou  art 

dead  ; 
But  we  sorrow  and  moan  that  the  "land  of  the 

free" 
Would  martyr  a  patriot-hero  like  thee  ! 

Ah  !  sad  is  the  thought,  and   'twill  ever  enwind 
With  the  cypress  and  laurel  the  soul   and  the 

mind 
Of  the  friends  who  beheld  thee  go  forth  in  thy 

might 
To  battle  for  Liberty,  Justice  and  Right. 

True  son  of  a  race  that  yet  never  knew  fear, 
Amid  thunder  of  cannon  or  lightning  of  spear  ; 
That,  ever  undaunted,  rushed  on  to  defend 
The  honor  of  Nation,  of  flag,  or  of  friend. 


MAJOR    GKADY. 

Oh  !  had  thy  bold  spirit  from  earth  taken  flight, 
Where  the  billows  of  battle  rolled  down  from 

each  height : 
Or,  had'st  thou  been  smitten  when  fronting  the 

foe, 
Our  hearts  were  not  wrapped  in  the  garments  of 

woe 

But  to  Fame  and  to  Freedom  thou  dost  now  be 
long  : 

And  Honor  and  Valor  shall  guard  thee  from 
wrong  ; 

And  Truth,  in  her  record  of  Liberty's  fight, 

Shall  blazon  thy  glory  with  pencil  of  light. 


59 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Gaefc  flDille  jfailtfoe. 

Read  at  the  Reception  to  Miss  Maud  Gonne,  Columbia  Theatre, 
Boston,  December  19,  1897. 

IT  AIL  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  daughter  of  Krin  ! 
*•  *      Friend  to  the  lowly,  the  poor  and  oppress 
ed  ! 
Caed  mille  failthe  !  brave  heart  and  unf earing, 

Liberty  clasps  thee  with  joy  to  her  breast. 
True  thou  hast  been  to  the  cause  of  our  sireland, 

True  to  thy  mission  to  rend  her  cursed  chain  ; 
Here  to  the  shore  of  the  greater  new  Ireland, 

Caed  mille  failthe,  again  and  again  ! 

High  in  the  court  of  thy  Country's  oppressor, 

Mightst  thou  have  dallied  in  downy  repose  ; 
Thrilled  by  the  wrongs  that  degrade  and  distress 
her, 

Grand,  in  rebellion,  thy  spirit  arose. 
Mighty  and  grand  as  the  maiden  immortal, 

Rending  the  mail-girded  foemen  of  I1  ranee, 
Onward  thou  sweepest  to  liberty's  portal, 

Cheering  thy  people's  triumphant  advance. 


60 


CAED     M1LLE     FAILTHE. 

Weep,  let  the  weak  at  thy  heartrending  story, 

Falter  the  coward  when  patriots  call ; 
Records  of  Erin  so  thrilling  and  gory, 

Weaponed  battalions  must  wipe  out  them  all  ! 
Trenched  on  the  hills  of  our  motherland,  bleed 
ing. 

Fronting  the  ranks  of  her  treacherous  foe, 
Tongue  of  the  musket  must  utter  our  pleading, — 

Thunder  a  lan^uasre  that  tyrants  shall  know  ! 


61 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Bllen,  Xarfein  anfc  ®'36rien. 

(Murdered  by  England,  Nov.  23.  1867.) 

T  N  every  land  beneath  the  skies 
*•      Wherever  throbs  an  Irish  breast, 
To-day  a  prayer  to  God  will  rise 

The  martyred  heroes'  souls  to  rest, 
Who  six  and  twenty  years  ago 

Proclaimed,  upon  the  gallows  tree, 
Full  in  the  teeth  of  Ireland's  foe, 
The  gospel  of  the  brave  and  free. 

Mid  bristling  steel  and  vengeful  foes 

That  cold  November  morn  they  stood, 
And  fearless  spake  their  country's  woes 

While  tyrants  thirsted  for  their  blood. 
"Vile  England,  murder  us,"  they  said, 

"But  vengeance  yet  will  grasp  a  brand 
And  death  will  reap  a  harvest  dread, 

Across  the  bosom  of  thy  land  !  " 

Adown  the  current  of  the  years 

Their  precious  blood  is  borne  along, 

Till,  mingled  with  a  nation's  tears, 
It  surges  now  a  sea  of  wrong. 


62 


ALI.EN,     LAKKIN     AND    O'BRIEN. 

Some  day  'twill  rise  in  fearful  wrath 
And  sweep  the  yielding  banks  away — 

Ah  !  Saxon,  change  thy  crime-paved  path 
Kre  it's  too  late  the  tide  to  stay  ! 

The  calm  is  now  ;  the  storm  is  near ; 

Revenge  is  waiting  not  asleep  ; 
Our  wrongs  have  grown  too  great  to  bear, 

And  Justice  has  no  tears  to  weep. 
The  shroudless  victims  of  your  crime 

From  out  their  holy  graves  to-day 
Call  to  the  Gael,  in  every  clime, 

To  sweep  your  tyrant  rule  away. 

()  Allen,  Larkin  and  O'Brien! 

Immortal  heroes  !  names  of  light  ! 
Your  deathless  words  like  beacons  shine 

To  guide  our  steps  to  freedom's  height ; 
And  when  our  banner,  streaming  free, 

Is  planted  on  each  Irish  hill, 
Emblazoned  on  its  folds  shall  be 

Your  dying  prayer  to  guard  it  still  ! 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     XOOX. 


IReleasefc— august,  1896. 

A  T  last  they're    free  !  the  gallant  ones,  their 
**       bondage  night  is  clone, 
Their  prison  cells  are  open  wide,  they  now  can 

face  the  sun. 
But,  God  !  how  lone  and  desolate  the  threshold 

where  they  stand — 
Old  friends  are  dead  and  times  are  changed — 

they're  strangers  in  the  land  ! 

With  pallid  face  and  sunken  eye,  and  shattered 

health  and  mind, 
They    totter    from    the    prison    door — an   early 

grave  to  find. 
Upon  their  bent  and  withered  forms  the  people 

shud'ring  gaze, 
And  ask  aloud,  "Are  these  the  men  we  knew  in 

other  days  ?  " 

Great  God  !  what  awful  punishment,  what  tor 
ture,  changed  them  so  ? 

Was  it  the  years  of  wild  despair,  or  brutal  jail 
or's  blow  ? 


64 


RELEASED,     AUGUST,     1896. 

Could   man   to   man  be  so  unjust,  so  savage  and 

unkind  ? 
Hut  they  are  free — ay  !  free  to  die — a  wreck  in 

soul  and  mind  ! 

You,  Irishmen  !  who  prattle  loud  of  "peace"  and 

"British  faith," 
Behold  these  seared  and  broken  forms  outflung 

to  living  death. 
Think,  if  you  can,  their  late  release  is  token  of 

good  will — 
That  England  means  to  right  the  past  and  grant 

you  justice  still. 

O  blind  and  brutal    Kngland  !   now  drunk  with 

wine  of  pride, 
Behold   thy  waning  greatness  and   thy  fortune's 

ebbing  tide  ! 
Think  of  the   awful   coming  day  when,  through 

thy  shattered  square, 
The    Irish   millions,   vengeance  led,   a  lightning 

bolt  shall  tear. 


AT    THE     GATKS     OF     NOON. 


Sbamrocfcs  from  flrelarrt. 

O  WEET  sister,  oh,  sweet  sister  !  send,  oh,  send 

^          across  the  sea, 

For  the  coming  Patrick's  morning,  send  some 

shamrocks  green  to  me, 
How  I'll  prize  them  from  thee,  sister,  God  alone 

can  ever  know, 
For  I   love  them,  oh,  I  love  them,  and  the  land 

in  which  they  grow. 

Yes,  old   Frin's  faithful   daughter,    wheresoe'er 

the  exiles  stray, 
Whether  in  the  ice-bound  Arctic,  where  there's 

but  one  night  and  day, 
Or  beside  the  gates  of  morning,  or  where  day" 

light  sinks  to  rest, 
The    green    shamrock    hills    of    Frin    fond    are 

treasured  in  each  breast. 

And  thy  name,  sweet  sainted  sister,  in  the  South, 

North,  Fast  and  West, 
Of  all   Frin's  faithful  children,  is  beloved    the 

clearest,  best ; 


66 


SHAMROCKS     FROM     IRELAND. 

And  thy  voice,  wherever  echoed,  ever  more  thy 

name  endears, 
And  the  weary-hearted  exile  cheers  or  floats  his 

eyes  in  tears. 

But  thy  letter,  ah  !  to  read  it — the  sad  tale  of 
Erin's  woes  — 

The  long  suffering  of  her  children,  the  in 
justice  of  her  foes ; 

Thy  great  efforts  to  redress  them  in  the  past 
and  present  years  — 

Ah  !  'twould  wring  from  hearts  of  iron  floods  of 
salt  and  scalding  tears. 

And    they    threaten    thee    with     murder  ?     Oh, 

most  valiant  men  and  brave  ! 
Land  of    \varriors  and  of  heroes !     Land    that 

never  nursed  a  slave  ! 
What  ?     A  proud  and  mighty  empire  on  which 

never  sets  the  sun 
Claims  the  honor  first  to  threaten  murder  to  a 

saintly  nun  ! 

And  the  cause  !  Oh,  mankind,  hear  it  !   Hear  it, 

God  in  heaven  above  ! 
That  she  strove  to  feed  through  famine  years, 

the  hungry  of  her  love  ; 


67 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Told  the  kind  and  listening  world  how  the  land 
lords  flung  the  poor, 

When  they  had  no  more  to  plunder,  starving, 
naked  from  their  door. 

And  they'll  murder  thee  for  telling  ?     By  that 

God  that  made  us  all  — 
By  the  grave  of  every  martyr,  from  Cork's  Cove 

to  Donegal, 
By  our  hopes  and  by  our  sorrows,  if  they  lay  a 

hand  on  thee, 
All    the    world    cannot    save  them  from  being 

swept  into  the  sea. 

For,  though  Ireland  is  down-trodden,  robbed, 

and  starved  and  begging  there, 
And    her    tyrants    fast    have  bound  her—  even 

taxed  the  very  air  ; 
Though  her  sons  are  broken-hearted,  and  are 

driven  to  despair, 
To  avenge  thee,  noble  sister,  there's  an  Ireland 

everywhere. 

And  you  say,  dear,  loving  sister — glorious  news 

for  all  and  me, 
Who    were    forced    by  law-made    famine,   from 

their  country  o'er  the  sea, 


68 


SHAMROCKS     FROM     IRELAND. 

And  who 're  ever  longing,  longing,  that  bright 

land  again  to  see — 
Though  they've  taxed  the  periwinkles,  still  the 

shamrocks  yet  are  free. 

Then,  while  they're  free,  oh,   send  me,  for  the 

coming  Patrick's  Day 
One  bright  wreath,  and  night  and  morning  ever, 

ever  shall  I  pray 
That  you'll  rise  as  bright  and  happy  as  the  sun 

yet  ever  rose, 
On    the    wings    of  glorious  triumph,   o'er   your 

mean,  unmanly  foes. 

(I  write  to  ask  those  of  your  leaders  who  wish  tor  shamrocks  from 
Ireland  for  St.  Patrick's  day  to  give  n  e  timely  notice.  Dean  Swift 
said  that  the  only  thing  in  Ireland  not  taxed  in  his  day  was  the  air. 
Well,  that  is  taxed  now,  as  far  as  possible,  for  an  attempt  has  been 
made  by  our  paternal  government  to  prevent  meetings  in  the  open  air 
for  the  discussion  of  Irish  grievances.  But  the  shamrocks,  as  yet,  are 
free.  Let  me  add  that  even  this  may  not  continue,  since  periwinkles 
have  been  taxed  by  an  Irish  landlord  — Sifter  )[an/  Francis  Clare's 
Letter  to  the  lioston  Globe.} 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


B  Sbamrocft  from  tbe  flrisb  Sbore. 

OWEET  Shamrock  from  the  Irish  shore  ! 
^     O  triple  leaf !  beloved  by  me, 
I  clasp  thee  to  my  heart  once  more, 

And  kiss  with  joy  thy  verdancy. 
And  as  I  gaze  upon  each  stem 

Late  rooted  in  my  native  clay, 
With  tearful  eyes  I  pray  to  Him 

To  roll  my  country's  clouds  away. 

I  feel  like  shouting  o'er  the  main 

To  bid  my  countrymen  arise 
And  rend  the  foul,  accursed  chain 

That  binds  her — weeping — 'neith  the  skies  - 
And  place  her  on  the  throne  of  light 

Where  she  sat  proudly  long  ago, 
Ere  Saxon  fraud  and  brutal  might 

Wrapped  round  her  form  the  cloak  of  woe. 

Dear  Shamrock  of  my  native  shore  ! 

What  blissful  scenes  you  call  to  view, 
You  open  Memory's  bolted  door, 

Revealing:  all  I  loved  and  knew  : 


70 


A     SHAMROCK     FROM     THE     IRISH     SHORE. 

My  cottage  home — the  peaceful  glade — 
The  winding  stream  that  laughs  along 

Where  first  my  ardent  thoughts  essayed 
To  soar  aloft  on  wings  of  song. 

Again  I  see  the  hand  of  Dawn 

Roll  back  the  curtains  of  the  night, 
And  hill  and  vale,  and  lake  and  lawn, 

Bathe  in  the  flood  of  golden  light, 
I  climb  Keash  Corran's  craggy  steeps 

And  musing  sit  upon  his  breast, 
While  Evening  o'er  the  valley  weeps, 

And  Day  yields  calmly  to  the  West. 

0  Shamrock  from  the  Irish  shore  ! 
Immortal  soul  of  minstrelsy  ! 

1  press  thee  to  my  lips  once  more 
And  dream  my  native  land  is  free. 

Oh  !  may  the  sun  of  Freedom's  day 
Uprise  and  bless  thee  with  his  light, 

Kiss  from  thine  eyes  the  tears  away — 
The  symbols  of  thy  bitter  night ! 


AT     THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 


Bear  Sbamrocfe  of  flDp  IRative  Dale. 

F^vEAR  Shamrock  of  my  native  vale  ! 

*-'      What  treasured  memories  throng  around 

Of  mountain,  hill  and  flowery  dale, 

Of  spreading  mead,  and  storied  mound, 
Of  fragrant  groves,  where  minstrelsy 

Of  Nature's  songsters  thrills  the  gale, 
As  fondly,  now,  I  gaze  on  thee, 

Dear  Shamrock  of  my  native  vale  ! 

Again  I  view  the  laughing  stream 

That  glides  my  native  cot  before  : 
Upon  its  banks  I  sit  and  dream 

The  dreams  of  boyhood  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
I  join  the  headlong,  careless  throng 

In  games  made  famous  by  the  Gael, 
Each  time  I  look  thy  leaves  among, 

Dear  Shamrock  of  my  native  vale  ! 

And  father's  voice  and  mother's  smile, 
And  brothers,  sisters,  cherished  dear, 

The  friends  whose  words  were  free  from  guile, 
The  comrades  true  from  year  to  year  ; 


DEAR     SHAMROCK     OF     MY     NATIVE     VALE. 

Again  I  hear,  again  I  see — 

Oh,  may  such  memories  never  fail  !  — 
While  to  my  heart  I'm  pressing  thee 

Dear  Shamrock  of  my  native  vale  ! 

And  Hope,  once  dead,  triumphant  cries, 

Though  rent  by  hand  of  Destiny, 
The  Gael  shall  yet  all  potent  rise 

Linked  in  the  chain  of  unity  ; 
And  sweep  the  foe  from  land  and  sea, 

And  crown  with  Freedom  Innisfail  :  — 
Thus  Hope  to  me,  while  kissing  thee, 

Sweet  Shamrock  of  my  native  vale  ! 


73 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 


St.  Patrick's 


AWAKE  from  your  slumbers,  brave  sons  of 
the  Gael  ! 

The  night  is  retiring,  the  daylight  is  near  ; 
The  music  of  Erin  floats  wild  on  the  gale, 
Proclaiming  the  day  of  St.  Patrick  is  here  ! 

Awake  from  your  dreaming,  come  forth  in  your 

pride, 
And  join  in  the  march  'neath  the  banner  of 

green  ; 

Let  enemies  frown,  and  let  bigots  deride  — 
The  glory  of  Erin  to-day  must  be  seen. 

Wherever    the    day-god    looks    down    from    his 
home  — 

In  forest  or  city  or  out  on  the  sea  — 
(Alas!  the  poor  exiles  must  everywhere  roam) 

Thy  sons,  beloved  Erin,  are  thinking  of  thee. 

They're  longing  and  pining  for  that  coming  day 
When  thy  chains  shall  be  rent,  thy  oppressors 
must  fiee  ; 


71 


ST.     PATRICK'S     DAY. 

When  they'll  march  through  thy  valleys  in  mar 
tial  array, 

And    the    moans    of    the  starving  no   longer 
shall  be. 

Awake  from  your  slumbers,  you're  dreaming  too 

long! 

Has  ever  such  dreaming  a  nation  made  free  ? 
Ah !    dreaming    will    never    right     poor    Erin's 

wrong — 
The  sooner  you  know  it  the  better  'twill  be. 

The    moment    is  come  in  our  land's  saddened 

story, 
The    time  when  each  true  son  must  play  a 

brave  part  ; 
Shall  we  preach  the  old  sermon  or  rush  on  to 

glory  ? 
Who  falters  has  in  him  a  traitorous  heart ! 


75 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


St.  Patrick's  H>a\?  Hoasts. 

OH  !   here's   to  green    Erin,   the   place  of  my 
birth  ! 

The  sweetest  and  fairest  of  lands  on  the  earth, 
And    soon    may    she  spring,   in   her  olden-time 

glow, 

Enfranchised  and  strong  from  the  grasp  of  her 
foe! 

And  here's  to  the  valiant,  who  battled  and  bled 
To  lift  the  green  high  o'er  the  Sassenach  red  ! 
That  ever  to  country  and  freedom  were  true, 
Who    tyrants    might     crus'h     but     could     never 
subdue  ! 

And  here's  to  the  living — wide  rendered  apart, 
But  fixed  in  their  love  as  the  blood  to  the  heart ! 
Oh  !  theirs  is  the  duty  to  dare  and  to  do, 
The  glory  and  fame  of  our  land  to  renew  ! 

And    here's  to   "Old  Glory,''  and  long  may   it 

wave, 
The  symbol  of  all  that  is  dear  to  the  brave  ! 


ST.     PATRICK'S     DAY     TOASTS. 

May  the  vengeance  of  God  blast  the  hand  that 

would  mar 
The  sanctified  sheen   of  each  stripe  and  each 

star  ! 

And  here's  to  the  heroes  who  bore  it  along, 
And  trampled  sedition,  enslavement  and  wrong  ; 
Oh  !  proud  is  the  boast,  but  who'll  dare  to  deny 
That  Irishmen  battled  to  keep  it  on  high  ! 

Oh  !  here's  once  again  to  our  own  mother  isle, 
And  soon  may  contentment  and  peace  on  her 

smile  ; 

All  tyrants  must  perish  and  kings  pass  away, 
But  love  for  thee,  Erin,  will  never  decay. 


AT    THE    GATKS     OF     NOON. 


IT  be  Gallant  IRintb, 

Read   at   presentation  of  the  American  and    Irish    Flags    to    the 
Ninth  Regiment,   M.   V.  M.,  Camp  Dewey,  Framingham,   May  29, 

1898. 

f~**  ALLANT  Ninth  of  Massachusetts  !  you  have 

^^      heard  the  bugle-call 

Ringing  out  from  Freedom's  rampart — from  the 

Nation's  sea-girt  wall ; 
You  have  answered  to  the  summons  and  await 

the  last  command 
Ere  you  rush  away  to  battle,  with  the  foemen  of 

our  land. 

Lo  !  this  flag  ordained  in  heaven  —  given  by  an 

angel  bright 
To  the  chosen  sons  of  valor,  in   their  struggle 

for  the  right. 
You    must    bear    it  on  its  mission  though  the 

universe  defy — 
Onward  bear  it,  and  defend  it,  and  beneath  it 

win  or  die  ! 


THE     GALLANT     NIN'TH. 

Gallant    Ninth  !    this    sacred  banner  erst  your 

noble  fathers  bore, 
And  it    streamed  a  dread    defiance  where    the 

foeman's  bullets  tore  ! 
Like  a  meteor,  through  the  tempest,  blazed  it 

over  Malvern  height, 
Where  the  noble  Cass  lay  bleeding,  and  brave 

Guiney  led  the  fight. 

Bogan  !  take  this  starry  banner  —  it  is  dear  to 

your  command  ! 
Take  this  green  and  golden  symbol  of  another 

stricken  land  ! 
Bear  them  where  the  fight  is  fiercest,  bring  them 

back  without  a  stain, 
And  remember  Mother  Erin  in   your  vengeance 

for  the  Maine  ! 


79 


AT    THE     GATKS     OF     NOON. 


Spreafc  tbe 


OPREAI)    the    Light!    Spread  the    Light,   in 

^      Erin  o'er  the  sea  ! 

Spread    the    Light    both    day    and     night    till 

Motherland  is  free  ; 
Spread  the    Light,  my  countrymen  !  in  village 

and  in  town, 
Till  by  its  rays  our  country's  wrongs  for  centu 

ries  be  known. 


Spread  the  Light,   Spread   the    Light,   in    Krin 

o'er  the  sea  ! 
Till  every  heart  is  lit  with  love  of  home  and 

liberty  ; 
Spread  the   Light,  and  friends  unite,  and   Erin 

soon  shall  stand 
Amid  the  nations  of  the  earth  a  free  and  happy 

land. 


So 


SPREAD    TIIK     LIGHT. 

Spread  the  Light — the  glorious  Light  of  Liberty 
and  Peace — 

And  soon  in  Erin  of  the  streams  all  tyranny 
shall  cease  ; 

Spread  the  Light  !  our  land  'twill  right — her  ty 
rants  quake  with  fear — 

Their  acts  won't  bear  the  light  of  day,  and  day 
is  drawing  near  1 


Si 


AT    THE    GATES     OF    NOON. 


2>OQ  of  Biuibnm. 


The  battle  of  Aughrim  was  fought  at  the  pass  of  Urrachree,  on 
Sunday,  July  12,  1691.  The  Williamite  army,  under  Ginckle,  consist 
ed  of  45,000  horse  and  foot;  the  Irish  force  under  St.  Ruth,  was  about 
15,000,  and  had  only  nine  field  pieces.  The  Williamites  were  thiice 
driven,  with  great  slaughter,  from  their  positions,  when  St.  Ruth  was 
killed  by  a  cannon  ball.  To  reap  the  glory,  he  had  kept  the  plan  of 
battle  to  himself,  and  when  he  tell  the  Irish  were  without  a  leader. 
Throughout  the  battle  the  gallant  Sarsfield,  with  half  the  troops,  was 
compelled  to  remain  idle  and  ignorant  of  all.  Many  Irish  regiments, 
scorning  to  fly,  were  slaughtered  to  a  man;  and  their  dead  bodies, 
stripped  of  everything  by  the  Williamites,  were  left  unbuned  on  the 
field.  There  is  a  true  and  remarkable  story  of  a  wolf  dog  belonging  to 
an  Irish  officer  killed  in  the  battle,  whose  body  the  dog  guarded,  night 
and  day,  and  would  not  allow  anybody  to  disturb  the  remains.  He 
would  go  in  the  night  to  the  adjacent  villages  for  food,  and  return  to 
the  place  where  his  master  lay  to  resume  his  watch.  Thus  he  contin 
ued  for  months,  when  one  of  Colonel  Foulke's  soldiers,  going  that  way 
by  chance,  unslung  his  piece  and  shot  the  faithful  sentinel  dead  upon 
the  bones  of  his  master. 

"'"PHK  day  is  ours,  my  gallant  men,"  criedbrave 

1        but  vain  St.  Ruth, 
"We    win    a    deathless  victory  for  liberty    and 

truth  ; 
This    land    we'll    wrest    from    William's    grasp, 

though  we're  but  one  to  three, 
And  make  his  crew  remember  long  the  pass  of 

Urrachree. 


"All  day  with  myriad  cannon  have  they  poured 

the  fierce  attack  ; 
With  valor  and  the  naked  sword,  thrice  have  we 

flung  them  back. 


82 


THE     DOG     OF     AUGHRIM. 

They're  beaten,  boys  !  they're  beaten.     Still  un- 

sheath  your  swords  again 
And  on  them  like  an  avalanche,  and  sweep  them 

from  the  plain." 

Like  thunderbolt  upon  the  foe  the  Irish  column 

sped, 
Athlone's  deep  stain  to  wash  away,  St.   Ruth  is 

at  the  head. 
On,  onward  rolls  that  wave  of  death.     O  God  ! 

what  means  that  cry  ? 
St.  Ruth,  the  brave,  upon  his  steed  sits  headless 

'neath  the  sky  ! 

"Oh  !  where's  the    gallant  Sarstield    now  ?      Is 

victory  defeat  ? 
O  God  !  in  mercy  strike  us  dead,  'twere  better 

than  retreat. 
Where  !  where  is  Limerick's  hero  brave  ?  "  the 

chiefiess  soldiers  cry, 
And  scorning  flight,  they  wait  the  dawn  to  give 

them  light  to  die. 

"No  quarter  !  "  \vas  the  slogan  of  the  Williamites 

that  day, 
And  graveless  lay  the  murdered  brave,  to  dogs 

and  thieves  a  prey. 


AT     THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

But  even  clogs  more  sacred  held   the  dying   and 

the  slain, 
Than  Ginckle  and  his  hireling  hordes  on  Augh- 

rim's  bloody  plain. 

When  Saxon  hends  the  scene  of  death  and  rob 
bery  had  lied, 

An  Irish  wolf-dog  sought  his  lord  'mid  heaps  of 
pilfered  dead, 

And  strove,  with  more  than  human  love  to  rob 
death  of  his  prize, 

Then  moaned  a  dirge  above  his  breast,  and 
kissed  his  lips  and  eyes. 

The  July  sun  shone  fiercely  down  upon  that 
corpse-strewn  plain, 

Where  bird  and  beast  of  air  and  field  devoured 
the  naked  slain. 

But  faithful  still,  the  wolf-dog  stood,  'mid  sav 
age  growls  and  groans, 

To  guard  alike,  from  man  and  beast,  his  well- 
loved  master's  bones. 

And  Autumn  pencilled  Summer's  bloom  in  tints 

of  gold  and  red, 
And  Winter,  over  hill  and  dale,  a  ghostly  mantle 

spread ; 


THE     DOG     OF    AUGHRIM. 

The   weird  winds  wailed  across  the  moor  and 

moaned  adown  the  deli; 
Yet    guarded   well    that    noble  dog  his  master 

where  he  feU. 

Spring  timidly  was  glancing  down  upon  that 
spreading  plain, 

\Yhere,  seven  months,  Death's  sentinel,  the 
faithful  dog  had  lain, 

When  carelessly  across  the  fields  a  British  sol 
dier  trod 

And  halted  near  the  only  bones  remaining  on 
the  sod. 

Up  sprang  the  faithful  wolf-dog  then — he  knew 

a  foe  was  near, 
And  feared  that  foe  would  desecrate  the  bones 

he  loved  so  dear. 
Fierce  and  defiant  there  he  stood;  the  soldier* 

seized  with  dread, 
Took   aim   and   fired — the  noble  dog  fell  on  his 

master — dead ! 


AT     THE     GATES    OF     NOOX. 


B  picture  of  flrtsb  1bistor£. 

i. 

woe  o'er  Erin  hangs  its  sombre  veil, 
And  wails  and  curses  pierce  the  ambient 

gale; 

Despair  and  Murder  hover  o'er  the  land, 
And  outlawed  Justice  grasps  her  fiery  brand. 

Sweet    Peace,    affrighted,     quits    the    dreadful 

scene, 

And  grim-faced  Misery  darkens  all  the  green  ; 
Pale-burning  Hate  lights  up  each  sunken  eye, 
And  fiendish  Bigotry  stands  grinning  nigh. 

The  kindly  peasant  views  his  home  ablaze, 
His  kindred  outraged  'fore  his  tortured  gaze  ; 
The  fruit  of  toil  swept  off  for  unjust  tax, 
His  recompense,  the  pitch-cap  and  the  axe. 

The    priest    by    bloodhounds  hunted  from   the 

fane, 

The  great  reward,  his  hated  head  to  gain  ; 
Religion  mocked  at,  and  a  well-soaped  rope 
For  all  who  are  believed  to  love  the  Pope. 


86 


A     PICTURE     OK     IRISH     HISTORY. 

Ah  !  who  would  dare  to  call  his  soul  his  own  ! 
Dread  crime  and  bribery,  their  crop  have  sown  ; 
The  fiends  impatient  for  the  coming  fruit 
Ere  it  has  ripened,  steal  the  stem  and  root. 

Free  speech  is  strangled,  even  hope  is  fled, 
And  shackled  liberty  lies  almost  dead  ; 
With  altered  eye  the  sun  beholds  the  green 
When  great  O'Connell  looms  upon  the  scene. 

II. 

Erect  and  towering  as  the  mountain  pine, 
He  stands  and  muses  on  the  land's  decline  ; 
The  gathering  clouds  upon  his  massive  brow 
Proclaim  the  conflict  fast  approaching  now. 

As  wolves  affrighted  seek  the  mountain  cave, 
\Vhen    downward    thunders   jagged    rock    and 

wave  ! 

As  cowards  tremble  'neath  the  hero's  lance, 
The  foe  recoils  before  his  lightning  glance. 

As  traveler  shudders  in  the  starless  night. 
When  some  great  meteor  flashes  on  his  sight, 
And  heaven  thunders,  all  the  earth  replies, 
So  shake  the  tyrants  in  wild,  mute  surprise. 


AT     THE     GATKS     OF     NOON 

The  baffled  monster  sees  his  rule  is  o'er, 
And  trembling  hurries  to  another  shore, 
Or  in  the  pest-well  of  foul  shame  and  sin, 
Mokanna-like  to  hide  him,  plunges  in. 

He  speaks — a  nation  to  his  standard  flies, 
The  sun  looks  smiling  from  the  bending  skies  i 
The  vales  and  mountains  in  a  shout  of  glee 
Re-echo  back,  "  Emancipated  be!" 

To  rend  the  hated  and  oppressive  chains 
That  bind  his  land,  noiv  every  nerve  he  strains. 
The  monsters,  Fraud  and  Bribery,  to  kill, 
Tho'  unsuccessful,  yet  a  victor  still. 

III. 

What  mean  the  trumpet   and  the  clarion's  note, 
That  shrill  and  clear  upon  the  morning  float — 
The  ringing  clatter  of  the  horses'  tread, 
The  gay  procession  winding  far  ahead — 

These  banners  waving  in  the  pulsing  air, 
The  green  and  orange  mingled  friendly  there  ? 
Why  bare  their  heads  as  slowly  on  they  come, 
And  gaze  with   moistened  eyes  on  Desmond's* 
home  ? 


Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald 


88 


A     PICTURE     OF     IRISH     HISTORY. 

Is  it  a  vision  of  great  eighty-two, 
Or  the  Volunteers  sprung  to  life  anew  ? 
Has  Emmet  started  from  his  scrolless  grave, 
Or  Wolfe  Tone  bid  again  his  pennons  wave  ? 

And  yet  no  cannons  frown  on  either  side 
As  on  they  march  in  martial  pomp  and  pride  ; 
No  glittering  spear  reflects  the  noontide  beam  — 
'Tis  not  a  vision — not  a  passing  dream. 

Behold  yon  shaft  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Though  muffled  yet  Olympian  brow  and  eye. 
There,  like  the  .stars  that  circle  'round  the  sun, 
They  come  to  honor  Ireland's  greatest  ONE. 

Unveil  that  brow  !  and  let  the  eagle  eye 
Gaze  on  the  scene  of  triumphs  laughing  nigh  ; 
Inspire  the  land  to  battle  bravely  on, 
Till  o'er  the  mountains  flashes  freedom's  dawn. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Ifamine  in  flrelan^ 

A  GAIN,  alas  !  is  heard  the  cry 
**     Up-pealing  through  the  Irish  sky, 
"Gaunt  Famine  stalks  with  frenzied  eye 

From  strand  to  strand, 
And  breadless  babes  and  mothers  die 

Throughout  the  land." 

While  in  his  van  with  axe  and  flame 

The  men  to  terrify  and  tame, 

The  crowbar  brigands  march  and  claim 

The  yearly  store 
To  feed  the  landlords'  dogs  and  game 

On  foreign  shore. 

And  is  there  not  a  hand  to  save 
The  victims  from  starvation's  grave  ? 
Among  the  slaves,  one  tearless  slave 

With  unbent  knees, 
Who'd  even  from  the  masters  crave 

The  dregs  and  lees  ? 


90 


FAMINE     IN     IRELAND. 

One  man  in  either  warring  band 
That  claims  to  represent  the  land, 
To  bravely  bid  the  people  stand 

And  hold  their  own  ? 
Great  God  !  is  manhood  from  the  strand 

Forever  flown  ? 

Ah  !  fondly  I  had  hugged  the  thought 
The  awful  past  a  lesson  taught, 
At  least  a  little  reason  brought 

To  sire  and  son — 
They'd  act  as  men  and  brothers  ought 

Till  right  was  won. 

Vain  dream  !  The  ghosts  of  millions  dead, 
Upstarting  from  the  ditches'  bed, 
The  thousands  howling  now  for  bread 

In  vain  appeal  ; 
They  stand  bewildered,  faction  led, 

While  robbers  steal. 

Unhappy  land  !  What  was  thy  crime, 
Committed  ere  recorded  time  ? 
Thy  sons,  heroic,  rise  sublime 

Where'er  they  roam  ; 
And  right  the  wrongs  of  every  clime 

But  thine,  at  home! 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Yet  thou  hadst  sons  like  brave  O'Xeil, 

Whose  thunderous  charge  and    lightning  steel 

Oft  made  the  Saxon  foemen  reel 

Upon  thy  plain  ; 
And  sons  shall  waken  freedom's  peal 

For  thee  again. 

And  sons  thou  hadst  in  ninety-eight, 
Who  wept  blood  tears  at  thy  sad  state, 
And  toiled  to  rend  the  chain  of  hate 

And  make  thee  free  ; 
And  though  they  could  not  conquer  fate, 

They  died  for  thee. 

My  motherland  !   I  see  thee  still 
Rag-garmented  upon  the  hill, 
Or  lonely  roaming  by  some  rill, 

In  grief  bowed  down. 
Ah,  had  I  power  to  back  my  will, 

Thou'dst  wear  thy  crown. 


92 


ERIX'S     APPEAL. 


Erin's  Hppeal. 

MEN  of  the  Irish  race  ! 

And  friends  that  are  tried  and  true  ! 
Erin  turns  her  tear-stained  face 

Again  in  appeal  to  you. 
She  stands  on  the  brow  of  day — 

Behind  is  the  sable  night ; 
Before,  the  uncertain  way, 

Half  dim  in  the  dawning  light. 

"O  give  me  your  aid  !  '  she  cries, 

"The  might  of  your  tongue  and  brain  ; 
Dark  woe  on  my  people  lies, 

And  'round  them  a  rusty  chain  ! 
One  step  and  we  greet  the  day  ; 

The  chain  from  each  limb  unbind — 
O  give  me  your  aid,  I  pray  ! 

The  strength  of  each  tongue  and  mind." 

O  men  of  the  Celtic  race, 

And  friends  of  a  deathless  Right ! 
And  thou,  with  majestic  pace 

That  leadest  the  march  of  light ! 


93 


AT     THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

O  haters  of  wrong  and  crime, 

And  lovers  of  liberty, 
True  and  brave  of  every  clime, 

What — what — will  your  answer  be  ? 

O  will  it  be  weak  and  cold, 

Or  thrilling  with  strength  and  cheer, 
Giving  back  the  hope  of  old 

To  that  land  long  chained  in  fear  ? 
Speak  now,  or  never  again, 

Dare  claim  that  your  souls  are  free  ! 
That  Isle  in  the  'circling  main 

Has  your  honest  sympathy. 


94 


A     PLEA     FOR     UNITY. 


O 


B  UMea  for  THmt\?. 

,H  for  the  clays — the  grand  old  days — when 

Ireland's  sons  were  one  ! 
Oh  for  the  chiefs — the  peerless  chiefs — who  led 

the  people  on  ! 

\Yhen  every  sun,  from  rath  and  dun,  saw  free 
dom's  flag  unfurled  ; 

And  Learning's  blaze    sent    Christian    rays    to 
light  the  pagan  world. 

Alas  !  these  days — these  warring  days — ah,  sad 

it  is  to  see 
The  people's  right,  the  people's  might,  rent  by 

disunity  ! 
The  foe  is  bold,  our  leaders  cold,  and  jealousy 

holds  sway, 
The  master  mind,  the  ranks  to  bind,  is  not  with 

us  to-day. 


95 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Let  us  again,  my  countrymen,  unto  ourselves  be 
true, 

Renew  the  days — the  deathless  days — when  Ire 
land  glory  knew  ; 

Unite,  unite,  our  wrongs  to  right,  and  let  our 
motto  be  : 

"Faith,  unity,"  from  sea  to  sea,  "and  Christian 
charity." 


MKX     OF     IRELAND. 


/iDcn  of  ffrelanfc. 


MEN  of  Ireland  !  shrined  in  story 
Are  the  deeds  of  fame  and  glory 
\Yrought  in  battle  tierce  and  gory, 

By  your  sires  of  old  ; 
Say,  will  you  like  slaves  surrender 
That  rare  heritage  of  splendor, 
Country  bleeds,  will  you  defend  her 
Like  your  fathers  bold  ? 


Proud  their  flag  uprearing, 
Death  they  faced  unfearing, 
Can  you  be  their  progeny 

And  prove  untrue  to  Erin  ? 
Swear  by  wrongs  of  tearful  ages, 
By  the  graves  of  martyred  sages — 
Crimes  that  stain  her  story's  pages, 

Country  to  uphold  1 

Men  of  Ireland,  hunger-haunted  ! 
Weaponed  like  your  sires  undaunted, 
Rise  and  rend  the  foemen  vaunted, 
Sweep  them  from  your  shore ; 


97 


AT    THE     GATES    OF     NOON. 

And  with  love  and  hope  undying, 
'Mid  the  people's  joyful  crying 
Fling  your  ancient  flag  outflying, 
To  the  breeze  once  more. 

Better  dead  or  dying 
On  the  hillside  lying 
'Mid  the  brave,  than  live  a  slave 

The  tyrants'  needs  supplying  ; 
Onward  !  did  your  fathers  falter  ? 
On  !  for  God's  and  Freedom's  altar  ; 
Strike — for  crimes  of  rack  and  halter, 

Strike — till  wrong  is  o'er  ! 


SELF-RELIANCE. 


Self=1Reliance. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks, 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells, 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks. 

Your  only  hope  of  freedom  dwells. — BKYON. 

would  that  Ireland's  sons  would  take 
This  glorious  lesson  once  to  heart, 
And  from  the  sleep  of  bondage  wake, 
And  on  the  road  to  freedom  start. 
Oh  would  at  last  they  learned  to  know, 

If  they  would  bid  the  foe  defiance, 
And  ever  strike  a  winning  blow7, 

Their  hope  and  shield  is  Self-Reliance  ! 

Tis  well  to  win  the  stranger's  ear, 

'Tis  good  to  have  a  nation — friend, 
But  when  the  storm  king  rages  near 

Can  foreign  friendship  shelter  send  ? 
Have  ships  on  ev'ry  sea  to  ride, 

Be  versed  in  all  the  "modern  science," 
The  rock,  when  rolls  war's  dreadful  tide, 

That  will  resist,  is  Self-Reliance. 


99 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     XOOX 

In  years  gone  by  our  fathers  tried 

To  break  the  chain  that  binds  our  land. 
The  foe  that  now  assails  defied, 

And  nobly  bared  the  gleaming  brand, 
But,  though  they  braver  were  than  we, 

And  then  the  foe  was  less  defiant, 
Their  struggles  ended  wretchedly, 

And  why  ?     They  were  not  Self-Reliant. 

Then  take  a  lesson  from  the  past, 

And  though  yours  be  a  mighty  foe 
Defeated  she  must  sink  at  last 

'Neath  a  united  people's  blow. 
For  never  yet  has  history  shown 

By  ancient  force  or  "modern  science," 
A  state  or  nation  overthrown 

Whose  motto  had  been  Self-Reliance. 

Oh  God  !  it  pains  my  soul  to  hear 

That  still  there  live  in  that  green  land 
Degenerate  sons,  who  quake  with  fear 

To  see  their  brothers  grasp  the  brand  ; 
Who'd  rather  crawl  in  servile  dust, 

Than  rise  and  bid  the  foe  defiance  — 
Who  think  it  sin  her  chains  to  burst 

And  sneer  and  jeer  at  Self-Reliance. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 

But  onward  !  Sons  of  Innisfail ! 

The  bright  and  glorious  goal  is  nearing, 
On  mountain  top  and  down  the  vale 

Behold  hope's  rays  at  last  appearing. 
Let  cowards  mock  !  let  cravens  fear  ! 

We'll  use  for  Freedom  each  appliance, 
The  dawn  is  here,  the  skies  grow  clear 

If  in  your  heart  be  Self-Reliance. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOOX. 


IRoscommon's  Welcome  to  parnell. 

f~^  AEI)  mille  failthe  !   Ireland's  hope  and  Eng- 

^ — '     land's  steadfast  foe, 

Caed  mille  failthe  to  the  West,  thou  soother  of 

our  woe  ! 
Oh,  how  our  inmost  hearts  are  filled  with  pride 

and  honest  glee, 
The  poor  man's  friend,  the  tyrant's  foe,  amongst 

us  here  to  sec 

From  towering    heath-robed    Corleus,  to    Mul- 

lagh's  craggy  side, 
From    Galway's    fair   and  spreading   meads   to 

stately  Shannon's  tide, 
From  peasant's  cot  and  lordly  dome,  the  young 

man  and  the  gray, 
We    come,    with  banners,    swelling    strains,    to 

welcome  you  to-day. 

Yes,  in  our  tens  of  thousands  strong,  of  every 

class  and  creed 
(Though  other  things  we  differ  in,  in   this  we 

have  agreed  ;) 


ROSCOMMOVS     WELCOME    TO     PARNELL. 

We're  here,  the  arched  sky  our  roof,  the  listen 
ing  world  to  tell, 

We're  grateful  for  your  noble  acts,  and  that  we 
love  you  well. 

For  where's  the  land  beneath  the  sky  that  has 

not  on  its  breast, 
By  tyrants  driven  from  their  homes,  some  exiles 

from  the  West  ? 
And  where's  the  land  beneath  the  sky  that  has 

not  heard  thy  fame  ? 
Or    Irish    heart    but  treasures  well  thy  highly 

honored  name  ? 

Oh,  if  our  prayer  can  pierce  yon  sky  and  reach 
His  ear  above, 

Or  if  the  love  we  bear  to  thee  can  our  great 
Father  move, 

To  Him  we'll  pray  both  night  and  day  to  shield 
thee  with  His  hand, 

And  leave  thee,  Parnell,  long  to  us  and  our  be 
loved  land. 


103 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Bncieut  ©i^er  ot  ibibernians. 

"THE  A.   O.   H.,   the  A.   O.    H.,   God  bless  it 
*       night  and  day, 
And  may  the  angels  guide  and  guard  and  keep 

it  from  decay. 
Oh,   may  it  grow  from   age  to  age  in  strength 

and  unity, 
And    link  the  Gael  in    friendship's  chain    and 

Christian  charity  ! 

In  evil  days,  when   Ireland  sank  immersed  in 

Penal  gloom, 
It  rose    the  messenger  of    Hope  from    out  the 

Nation's  tomb, 
Stood  strong  as  granite  battlement  around  the 

stricken  Gael, 
And  scourged  full  oft  in  breach  and  field  the 

bloodhounds  of  the  Pale. 

It  held  aloft  the  torch  of  faith  and  morals  in 

the  land, 
And  guarded  well  the  hunted  priest  when  Erin's 

creed  was  bann'd. 


104 


ANCIENT     ORDER     OF     HIBERNIANS. 

The  magic  tongue  of  bard  and  chief,  the  golden 

C'eltic  lore, 
It  snatched  from  out  oblivion's  grave  to  live  for 

evermore. 

It  clasps  the  exile  to  its  breast  beneath  whatever 
sky, 

Relieves  the  widow  in  distress  and  dries  the  or 
phan's  eye. 

The  poor,  the  friendless  and  the  sick  receive  its 
tender  care, 

And  for  its  dead  ascends  to  God  its  daily  fervent 
prayer. 

Ere  spoke  the  guns  of  Lexington  across  the  sea 
it  came, 

The  foeman  heard  on  Bunker  Hill  and  trembled 
at  its  name. 

On  field  and  flood,  Columbia  !  wherever  thun 
dered  Mars, 

To  glory,  fame  and  victory  it  bore  the  Stripes 
and  Stars. 

And  in  the  future  as  the  past  'twill  battle  in  the 

van 
For  justice,  right  and  liberty  for  every  creed  and 

clan  ; 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 

As  faithful  guard  the  starry  flag  on   its  adopted 

strand 
As  ever  did  its  valiant  sires  the  green  on  native 

land. 

The   A.   O.  H.,  the  A.  ().  H.,  God  bless  it  night 

and  day ! 
And  may  the  angels  guide  and  guard  and  keep 

it  from  decay  ! 
Still  may  it  grow,  from  age  to  age,  in   strength 

and  unity, 
And    link    the    Gael    in   friendship's  chain   and 

Christian  charity. 


1 06 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  OPERA  OK  "BRIAN  BORU. 


v>  tbe  ©pera 
of  "Brian  Boru." 


T   SA\\'  brave  Brian  Boru  to-day 
*       Lead  on  his  clans  in  bright  array, 
And  though  it  was  in  mimic  play, 

My  soul  was  thrilled 
To  see  the  harp  and  sunburst  rly 
Uncrowned,  beneath  the  Irish  sky  ; 
The  victor-chiefs  all  gathered  nigh  — 
My  dream  fulfilled. 

The  past  unrolled  its  page  to  me  — 
Not  that  retraced  by  bigotry, 
But  truth's  own  tale  of  chivalry 

And  high  emprise 
Clontarf  beheld  upon  her  plain 
When  sank  the  stormy-hearted  Dane 
To  never  rise  nor  right  again 

'Xeath  Irish  skies. 

And  as  I  mused  upon  each  line 
Where  Erin's  ancient  glories  shine, 
I  sorrowed  for  my  land's  decline  — 
Her  ceaseless  woe  ! 


107 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Still  Hope  triumphant  in  my  breast 
Cried,  "Sons  heroic  yet  shall  wrest 
Her  lawful  right  and  queenly  crest, 
From  Saxon  foe." 

O  God  !  it  is  a  splendid  sight, 
When  rush  the  chivalry  and  might 
Of  ancient  Krin  to  the  right 

Their  king  before  ; 

With  banners  streaming  high  and  free, 
Kissed  by  the  winds  of  liberty, 
While,  bannerless,  the  British  flee 

From  hill  and  shore. 

Oh  !  would  that  it  were  fact,  not  play  ! 
Oh  !  would  that  I  could  see  the  day 
The  Saxon  hordes  were  swept  away 

From  my  dear  land  ! 
When,  at  free  Erin's  trumpet  call, 
The  chiefs  and  clans  would  gather  all, 
And  wake  again,  through  Tara's  hall, 

The  music  grand  ! 


108 


THE     HOUSE    OF    LORDS     MUST    GO. 


TTbe  Ibouse  of  Xoros  flfcust  Go. 

HOUT  the  cry  from  hill  and  valley, 

In  the  workshop  and  the  store, 
Let  it  ring  through  street  and  alley, 

From  the  centre  to  the  shore. 
Swell  it  loud,  ye  friends  of  Freedom  ! 

Be  you  Irishmen  or  no, 
That  the  people  must  have  justice, 
And  the  House  of  Lords  must  go  ! 

Through  the  ages  we  have  suffered 

And  most  humbly  bent  the  knee, 
Pleaded  with  our  pampered  masters, 

For  relief  and  liberty. 
With  contempt  and  sneer  they've  answered, 

Aye  !  and  often  with  a  blow  !  — 
Slaves,  or  men  !  will  this  continue  ? 

Do  I  hear  you  answer,  No! 

Twas  but  yesterday  we  asked  them 

For  that  holy  human  right, 
That  was  given  to  all  people 

When  the  Great  God  gave  them  light. 


109 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

With  a  scornful  "no"  they  answered, 
Ah  !  how  long  will  this  be  so  ? 

Men  !  Awake  !  We  must  have  freedom, 
And  the  lazy  lords  must  go  ! 

Yes,  arise  !  and  by  the  millions 

Who  have  vainly  cried  for  bread  ! 
By  the  bones  that  lie  uncoffined, 

In  the  ocean's  slimy  bed  ! 
By  the  famine-murdered  parents  ! 

And  the  outraged  sisters,  swear  ! 
Tyrant  rule,  class  domination, 

Must  be  ended  everywhere  ! 


AT     LAST. 


Ht  Xast. 

(England  is  on  her  knees  in  the  Transvaal.  For  once  she  pleads, 
not  for  justice,  but  for  mercy  for  her  sons.  For  once  she  admits  that 
though  justice  may  be  all  right,  it  is  not  always  the  best  thing.  It 
took  many  warnings  to  reveal  her  position  to  her,  but  at  last  she  under 
stands. —  Cablegram  to  Daily  Press.) 

f~\   GOD  be  praised  !  mine  eyes  have  seen  the 

^-^     joyful  day  at  last ! 

Mine  ears  have  drunk  the  thrilling  news  re 
echoed  in  the  blast ! 

The  robber  of  the  poor  and  weak  in  every  land 
and  sea, 

For  life  and  mercy  humbly  pleads,  on  lowly- 
bended  knee. 

Perfidious  Britannia  !  thou  curse  of  every  clime  ! 

There  couldst  not  be  a  God  of  right  if  lasting 
was  thy  crime  ; 

The  Godhead  spoke ;  thy  galling  yoke  melts 
from  each  neck  away, 

And  thou,  by  every  land  despised,  standst  fear 
fully  at  bav. 


AT    THE     GATES    OF     NOON. 

Glory    to  God !  the    plundered  now    will    have 

their  own  again, 
And  deep  revenge  will  doubly  pay  for  centuries 

of  pain  ! 
The  mercy   which    you  never  gave  and  which 

you  crave  to-day 
Avenging  swords  will  only  grant  when  ended  is 

thy  sway. 

From  north  and  south  and  east  and  west,  from 
mountain,  lake  and  sea, 

Wherever  tossed  thy  blighting  flag  of  fraud  and 
treachery  ; 

Wherever  pressed  by  pirate  feet  to  pillage  and 
to  slay, 

A  prayer  and  hope  to  God  ascends  for  thy  de 
feat  to-day. 

Beloved  Erin  !   Motherland  !    My  tearful  queen  ! 

My  own ! 
Betrayed,  reviled  and  battle-scarred,  long  exiled 

from  thy  throne, 
What    mercy   did    the    tyrant  grant   to  all  thy 

pleading  tears  ? 
What  justice   to   thy  children  wronged  through 

many  hundred  years  ? 


AT    LAST. 

Arise,  Lord  Edward  !  Brother  Shears  !  Rise  true 

and  lofty  Tone  ! 
Immortal  Emmet  !  martyr  boy,  from  'neath  thy 

scrolless  stone  ! 
Come  Allen,  Larkin  and  O'Brien  from  out   your 

quick-lime  grave 
And    tell    of   England's  mercy  and  the  justice 

that  she  gave  ! 

Up  from  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  ye  shroudless 
thousands  come, 

By  sword  and  famine  forced  to  flee  from  kindred 
and  from  home  ! 

Arise  !  ye  millions  starved  to  death,  while  ship 
loads  left  your  land, 

And  point  to-day  to  England  vile,  the  grim, 
accusing  hand ! 

Glory    to    God  !    the  plundered    now  will   have 

their  own  again  ; 
And  sweet  revenge  will  doubly  pay  for  centuries 

of  pain  ! 
The  mercy  which  she  never  gave  and  which  she 

craves  to-day, 
Avenging  swords  will  only  grant  when  ended  is 

her  sway  ! 


AT    THK     GATES    OF     NOON. 


Dow  ot  tbe  E.iilefc  Gelt. 

T  WILL  not  curse  the  Saxon  land, 
*•      Nor  will  I  curse  the  Saxon  men, 
Though  I'm  an  exile,  banished,  banned, 

And  ne'er  can  see  my  land  again  ; 
Though  childhood's   home  was  razed  to  earth 

By  fiendish  laws  and  fiendish  men, 
I  will  not  curse  their  acts  nor  birth — 

God  knows  their  wealth  of  crime  and  sin. 

But  hate  them,  yes  !     With  deadly  hate, 

While  e'er  within  my  heart  or  veins 
One  ruddy  drop  does  circulate, 

One  flickering  ray  of  life  remains. 
And  I  will  feed  that  deathless  hate 

With  every  crime  and  every  wrong 
Inflicted  on  my  land,  to  date, 

Since  Saxon  trod  its  hills  among  ! 

I  have  no  other  aim  in  life 

Than  to  avenge  my  country 's  past  ; 

Than  nerve  my  brothers  for  the  strife — 
The  strife,  thank  God  !  approaching  fast : 


VOW     OF     THE     EXILED     CELT. 

Than  plant  in  them  the  same  deep  hate. 

My  foe  has  been  my  brother's  foe, 
My  fate  has  been  a  million's  fate  — 

How  easy  then  the  seed  to  sow  ! 

Vile  Saxon  !      Didst  thou  yet  begin 

To  con  the  debt  you'll  have  to  pay 
When  millions  of  my  countrymen 

Will  seek  revenge  the  reaping  day  ? 
And  oh  !  that  day's  not  distant  now — 

The  dawn's  first  glimmer  gilds  the  sky  ; 
I  read  it  in  each  knitted  brow, 

J  see  it  in  each  brother's  eye. 

And,  when  it  comes,  let  no  man  yield  ; 

We  will  not,  cannot,  mercy  show  ; 
Our  fathers'  blood  from  every  field, 

From  every  stream,  would  thunder,  "No  !  " 
Would  cry  :   "They  never  justice  gave 

To  hoary  head  or  lisping  child, 
Roll  on  them  like  an  earthquake  wave, 

Too  long  our  land  they  have  defiled." 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


ZTbe  Exile  to  fbis  Son. 

a  shelving  cliff  by  the  restless  sea 
The  exile  sat  at  the  close  of  day, 
In  the  great  broad  land  of  the  brave  and  free, 

Where  starry  flags  in  the  breezes  play  ; 
And  sad  he  seemed,  and  old  and  weak, 

Though  scarce  past  life's  meridian  day  ; 
The  shade  of  death  was  on  his  cheek, 

His  brow  was  ridged,  his  locks  were  gray. 

Low  at  his  feet  reclined  a  boy— 

A  blue-eyed  boy  with  golden  hair, 
The  exile's  pride  and  only  joy  ; 

And,  wise  was  he,  and  brave  as  fair. 
He  gazed  into  his  father's  face 

And  mutely  drank  each  word  he  said  : 
Like  wind-swept  cloudlet's  shadow  chase, 

Unconscious  flushes  came  and  fled. 


116 


THE     EXILE     TO     HIS     SOX. 

"Thirty  years,"  the  old  man  cried, 

"Ay,  thirty  weary  years  this  day, 
Since,  leaning  o'er  the  big  ship's  side, 

I  watched  loved  Erin  fade  away. 
Oh  !  looked  she  then  so  bright  and  grand, 

Dressed  in  the  flowery  robes  of  May, 
The  bridegroom  Ocean,  with  his  hand 

Laving  her  feet  in  milky  spray! 

"You  wonder  that  I  weep,  my  boy, 

But  sure  you  never  saw  that  land  ; 
Ah  !  you  know  not  the  wealth  of  joy 

I  buried  ere  I  left  its  strand. 
You'll  never  know  the  cherished  dreams 

1  nursed  alone  beside  that  sea, 
When  moonlight  beams  seemed  sabre  gleams, 

And  Ocean's  voice  spoke  Liberty. 

"Where  towering  heath-robed  Knock-na-Reagh 

Majestic  rises  from  the  sea, 
And  sentry-like  guards  Sligo  bay, 

Our  cottage  nestled  peacefully  ; 
My  parents,  sister  Nell,  and  me — 

Ah  !  Nellie  was  the  village  queen — 
Lived  happy  and  contentedly, 

( )ur  home  the  neatest  could  be  seen. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

"The  landlord  came,  and  without  cause 

He  cast  us  out  one  winter  day — 
Accursed  be  their  Saxon  laws  ! 

Ere  night  our  home  a  ruin  lay. 
Beneath  a  hedge  we  made  our  bed, 

No  neighbor  dared  his  roof  to  share 
The  morning  found  my  parents  dead, 

And  Nellie — moaning  in  despair. 

"Next  day,  poor  Nellie,  raving  wild, 

Was  placed  behind  the  madhouse  bars 
But  God  was  kind  to  the  homeless  child, 

And  took  her  soul  beyond  the  stars  ; 
That  night  above  my  parents'  clay — 

The  very  night  poor  Nellie  died — 
I  vowed  the  monster  vile  to  slay  ; 

I  slew  him  in  his  drunken  pride  ! 

"You  start — I  see  your  horror  gaze  ; 

Yes,  murder  is  a  dreadful  thing; 
But  trace  the  cause  through  all  its  maze, 

Back  to  its  poisoned  parent  spring  ; 
View,  as  I  viewed,  your  parents  slain, 

Your  sister  in  the  madhouse,  dead, 
And  no  redress — a  frenzied  brain — 

A  homeless  outcast,  vengeance-led." 


118 


THE     EXILE    TO     HIS    SOX. 

The  old  man  paused,  and  sorrow's  tears, 

Long  pent,  now  Mowed  like  summer  showers, 
As  memory  ran  across  the  years 

And  traced  again  youth's  happy  hours. 
He  shuddered,  and  a  piercing  look 

The  bright  and  gentle  boy  he  gave  ; 
With  firm,  fierce  clasp  his  hand  he  took, 

As  up  the  moon  sprang  from  the  wave. 

"My  boy,  come  swear  by  yonder  star, 

That  late  has  seen  my  suffering  land — 
By  all  the  wrongs  that  were  and  are, 

And  all  my  country's  martyred  band — 
By  all  the  torture  and  the  pain 

The  tyrant  caused  that  land  and  me, 
You'll  ever  give  your  strength  and  brain 

To  Erin,  till  she's  ransomed,  free  !" 

The  wind  was  still,  the  ocean  spoke 

In  murmured  whispers  on  the  shore, 
The  sea-fowl  scarce  an  echo  woke, 

The  crag-tossed  torrent  ceased  its  roar. 
Up  stood  the  youth  before  his  sire, 

The  moon  gleamed  on  his  flushing  brow, 
His  blue  eyes  flashed  with  patriot  fire, 

As  slow  he  spoke  his  father's  vow. 


119 


AT     THE     GATES     OF    NOON". 

Up  sprang  the  old  man  from  his  seat, 

And  round  the  youth  his  arms  he  flung 
" .Via  bouchal  bci-wri,  ne'er  may  defeat"- 

No  other  word  e'er  spoke  his  tongue. 
His  arms  relaxed — a  gasp  ! — a  moan  ! 

In  vain  the  youth  raised  up  his  head: 
"Oh,  father,  leave  me  not  alone  !  " 

In  vain  he  cried — his  sire  was  dead  ! 


THE     DYING     EXILE. 


H>\?imi 


nearer,  nearer  to  my  bed, 
And  raise  the  pillow  'neath  my  head, 
Eor  I  would  speak  a  word  to  you 
Ere  I,  forever,  bid  adieu. 
My  hours  of  life  are  numbered  now, 
1  feel  death's  seal  upon  my  brow, 
And  fast,  before  my  fading  sight, 
The  day  is  sinking  into  night. 

Ah  !  'tis  a  lonely  thing  to  die 
Alone,  beneath  a  foreign  sky. 
Afar  from  all  you  cherish  dear, 
With  not  a  kindred  spirit  near ; 
No  soothing  voice,  nor  tender  hand 
To  quench  the  scorching  fever  brand  ; 
No  tear  to  hallow  parting  love, 
Nor  prayer  to  waft  the  soul  above. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 

Up  sprang  the  old  man  from  his  sent, 

And  round  the  youth  his  arms  he  tiling 
".I/a  bouchal  ba~utt,  ne'er  may  defeat"-- 

No  other  word  e'er  spoke  his  tongue. 
His  arms  relaxed — a  gasp  ! — a  moan  ! 

In  vain  the  youth  raised  up  his  head: 
"Oh,  father,  leave  me  not  alone  !  " 

In  vain  he  cried — his  sire  was  dead  ! 


THE     DYING     EXILE. 


nearer,  nearer  to  my  bed, 
And  raise  the  pillow  'neath  my  head, 
For  I  would  speak  a  word  to  you 
Ere  I,  forever,  bid  adieu. 
My  hours  of  life  are  numbered  now, 
I  feel  death's  seal  upon  my  brow, 
And  fast,  before  my  fading  sight, 
The  day  is  sinking  into  night. 

Ah  !  'tis  a  lonely  thing  to  die 
Alone,  beneath  a  foreign  sky, 
Afar  from  all  you  cherish  dear, 
With  not  a  kindred  spirit  near ; 
No  soothing  voice,  nor  tender  hand 
To  quench  the  scorching  fever  brand  ; 
Xo  tear  to  hallow  parting  love, 
Xor  prayer  to  waft  the  soul  above. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 

Ah  !  this  to  dying  adds  a  pain  ; 

Yet  longer  I  would  not  remain, 

And  oft  I  sought  on  fields  of  death 

A  solace  for  my  weary  breath. 

Wherever  Freedom's  banner  led, 

Wherever  Truth  and  Honor  bled, 

My  sword  leaped  from  its  scabbard  bright, 

And  flamed  the  foremost  in  the  right. 

I  saw  my  hapless  motherland 
Lie  bleeding  'neath  the  tyrant's  hand  ; 
I  heard  the  starving  orphan's  cry, 
Beheld  the  famished  millions  die 
Along  the  ditches  and  the  moor, 
While  ships  bore  plenty  from  the  shore  ; 
And  when  I  said  "It  must  not  be," 
They  tortured  and  transported  me. 

Oh  !  you  that  know  the  penal  cell, 
The  monsters,  more  like  fiends  of  hell 
Than  sons  of  men,  who  guard  the  chain 
That  links  the  convict  to  his  pain  ; 
You,  you,  alone  can  ever  say 
The  wrongs  I  suffered  clay  by  clay, 
Till  God,  in  mercy,  showed  to  me 
The  path  that  led  to  liberty. 


THE     DYING     EXILE. 

But  freedom's  naught  to  him  who's  banned 

From  home  and  love  and  native  land, 

And  oh  !  these  ever  were  to  me 

More  dear  than  life  or  liberty  ; 

Vet,  far  from  all,  my  bones  must  rest, 

But  listen — 'tis  my  last  request, 

And  if  you  ever  tread  our  land, 

Its  true  fulfilment  I  demand. 

I  knew  a  maiden  long  ago, 
The  only  daughter  of  my  foe — 
The  foe  of  all  my  land  and  race — 
The  tyrant  of  my  native  place  ; 
But  she  was  beautiful  as  day 
Reposing  in  the  arms  of  May, 
And  gentle  as  the  balmy  sigh 
The  blowing  rosebud  breathes  anigh. 

In  her  the  lowly  and  oppressed, 
The  poor,  the  homeless  and  distressed, 
Had  ever  found  a  gentle  friend, 
To  soothe,  to  pity  and  defend  ; 
And  long  she  labored  day  and  night 
The  people's  many  wrongs  to  right, 
And  oft  and  oft  she  wept  to  see 
Her  tyrant  father's  cruelty. 


123 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Kind  friend,  this  package  take  from  me, 

And  guard  it  well  and  tenderly, 

This  is  her  name,  and  that  the  place 

(Yes,  she  is  of  the  Saxon  race), 

And  if  she's  living,  understand 

I  charge  you  place  it  in  her  hand, 

But  tell  her  not  a  single  word 

Of  me,  or  all  you  now  have  heard. 

But,  if  she's  dead,  above  her  breast 
Just  place  the  simple  legend,  "Rest." 
We'll  meet  above —  A 'frosty  wave 
Swept  o'er  his  face  tear-wet  and  grave, 
And  froze  the  sentence  half  unsaid 
Most  tenderly  I  raised  his  head, 
But  Death  had  touched  him  with  his  sword 
And  sent  his  spirit  to  its  Lord. 


WILL     I     REMEMBERED     BE 


11  IRememberefc  JBe? 


MY  love,  my  life,  my  hope,  my  pride, 
My  all  on  earth  to  me, 
My  native  land,  my  childhood's  home, 

I  leave  to  night  and  thee  ; 
I  go  to  lands  far,  far  away 
Beyond  the  heaving  sea  ; 
Ah  !  when  an  exile  there  I  stray, 
Will  1  remembered  be  ? 

I  know  my  lot  in  that  far  land, 

A  lot  of  toil  must  be  ; 
Ah  me  !  how  willing  were  my  hand 

Were  all  that  toil  for  thee. 
I  feel  thy  face  on  earth  again 

I  never  more  shall  see, 
But  ah  !  to  know,  will  kill  my  pain, 

That  I'll  remembered  be. 

Oh,  tell  me  when  at  eventide, 

Or  at  the  noon  of  day, 
The  slowly-winding  Suck  beside, 

You  sit  or  musing  stray, 


127 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON 

Where  we  first  wove  our  web  of  love 

In  wildest  ecstacy, 
And  vowed  to  ever  faithful  prove — 

\Yill  I  remembered  be  ? 

Or  when  in  halls  of  mirth  and  light 

You  mingle  with  the  brave, 
They  tell  you  of  the  glorious  fight 

They  fought  their  land  to  save  ; 
And  when  they  whisper  low  and  sweet 

Their  tale  of  love  to  thee, 
With  lips  well  practised  in  deceit, 

Will  I  remembered  be  ? 

Yon  moon  that  now  from  heaven's  floor 

Smiles  down  upon  this  scene, 
Will  cease  its  silvery  flood  to  pour 

On  lake  and  valley  green  ; 
Those  bright  and  trembling  stars  will  set, 

This  bower  will  withered  be  ; 
But  this  fond  heart  can  ne'er  forget 

My  native  land  or  thee. 


128 


AH,     WELL    I     LOVE     MY     NATIVE     LAND. 


Bb,  Well  11  Xove  /IDs  IRattve  Xanfc. 

A   H,  well  I  love  my  native  land — 
'*•      The  land  my  fathers  dearly  cherished  ; 
Its  vales  and  hills  and  mountains  grand, 

Defending  which,  they  nobly  perished; 
Its  silvery  lakes  and  sparkling  streams, 

Its  ruins  ivy-clothed  and  hoary, 
In  which  I  still  catch  lingering  gleams 

Of  Erin's  past,  unrivaled  glory. 

Each  fragrant  dell  and  dreamy  glen, 

Where,   when   a  child,  my  father  brought  me 
To  see  his  corps  of  Eenian  men — 

To  love  my  Erin  thus  he  taught  me. 
And,  oh,  I  never  shall  forget 

Their  ringing  cheer,  their  sabres  clashing, 
I  think  I  see  them  marching  yet, 

Their  bayonets  in  the  moonlight  flashing. 


129 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Ah,  no  !  they're  scattered  far  and  wide, 

Some  in  the  prison  cells  are  weeping, 
Some  far  beyond  the  ocean's  tide, 

And  some  in  mother  earth  are  sleeping. 
Oh,  how  I  long  to  grasp  the  sword, 

And  stand  in  line  as  father  taught  me, 
To  hear  the  cheer,  the  marching  word, 

Ring  in  the  glen  where  father  brought  me. 


130 


HOME. 


1bome. 

OH  !  who  on  earth  has  ever  heard, 
From  human  lips  or  singing  bird, 
A  sweeter  tone,  a  dearer  word, 
Than  home  ? 

More  love,  more  joy,  more  bliss  is  found, 
Than  earth  contains  within  its  round, 
In  that  sweet,  simple  little  sound — 
My  home. 

The  sailor  tossed  upon  the  sea, 
Wrapt  in  the  maze  of  reverie, 
Starts  with  the  joy  of  slave  made  free 
At  sound  of  home. 

The  pilgrim  on  his  lonely  way 
Beguiles  the  weary  hours  away 
With  memories  sweet  of  childhood's  day 
And  home. 

The  soldier  watching  through  the  night, 
And  waiting  for  the  morning  light, 
Forgets  the  coming  bloody  tight 
In  thoughts  of  home. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOOX. 

The  exile  'mid  eternal  snow, 
Or  delving  deep  in  earth  below, 
Still  dreams,  amid  increasing  woe, 
Of  home. 

And  as  I  sit  this  Christmas  Eve 
Within  my  room,  and  think  and  grieve, 
What  web  of  memories  I  weave 
Of  home  ! 

Of  childhood's  home  beyond  the  sea, 
But  home,  alas  !  no  more  to  me. 
Ah,  greatest,  darkest  misery, 
I  have  no  home  ! 

How  many  more  in  Innisfail 
Tell  every  piercing,  passing  gale 
The  same  heartrending,  woeful  tale 
Of  ravished  home ! 

How  many  more  this  Christmas  Eve 
Along  the  ditches  sadly  weave 
The  same  sad  web,  and  dying,  grieve 
Eor  home  ! 


HOME. 

Oh,  God  of  justice  !  will  there  be 
An  end  to  Erin's  misery, 
And  will  her  tyrants  find  with  Thee 
A  home  ? 

Will  those  who  suffer  here  below, 
Whose  life  is  one  long  night  of  woe, 
With  Thee  no  brighter  glory  know, 
No  sweeter  home  ? 


AT    THE     GATES    OF     NOON. 


Ube  autumn  Daps. 

\\  7 HAT  days  so  rare  as  the  autumn  clays, 

When  the  morning  beams  or  the  golden 

rays 

Of  the  setting  sun,  like  a  gleaming  lance 
On  the  burnished  shield  of  the  forest  glance  ? 

The  days  of  spring,  like  a  flirting  maid, 
May  enchant  the  eye  with  their  light  and  shade* 
But  their  pleasures  pall  on  the  conscious  heart, 
Like  the  fleeting  glow  of  her  soulless  art. 

The  summer  days,  with  their  dreamy  calm, 
May  steep  the  mind  in  a  sensuous  balm, 
But  the  spotless  soul  and  the  sleepless  eye 
And  the   nerveless  frame  from   the  drug  would 

fly. 

And  the  winter  days  may  whisper  "rest" 
To  the  shattered  heart  and  the  weary  breast, 
But  over  and  over  their  storm-swept  page 
Are  the  deep  footprints  of  unchanging  age. 


THE     AUTUMN     DAYS. 


O  !  never  were  days  like  the  peerless  days 
When  Autumn  unrolls  to  the  raptured  gaze 
Of  the  lofty  soul  and  the  searching  eye 
All  her  pencilled  gems,  on  the  earth  and  sky, 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


\17HY  do  all  poets  sing  to  May 

And  bend  the  knee  to  "royal  June," 
Unless  it^is  one  rhymes  with  lay 

The  other,  easily  with  tune  ? 
Why  are  the  other  months  unsung  ? 

Have  they  no  beauty  in  their  eye  ? 
Perchance  they  trip  the  rhymer's  tongue — 

But  I  will  sing  thee,  clear  July  ! 

Thou  art  so  beautiful  to  me — 

Each  golden  morning,  noon  and  eve  ; 
And  oh  !  thy  nights  entrancingly 

Begem  each  fancy-web  1  weave. 
Sweet  Summer's  full-grown  daughter  thou, 

With  heaving  breast  and  love-fraught  sigh 
Close  to  my  soul  I  clasp  thee  now, 

And  kiss  thy  rosy  lips,  July. 

With  thee  I'll  wander  down  the  vale, 
Or  climb  the  craggy,  breezy  hill, 

The  lake,  sun-kissed  and  pulsing,  sail, 
Or  sit  beside  the  laughing  rill. 


136 


JULY. 

Beneath  the  tangled  forest  shade, 

\Yhere  Nature's  brood  is  sweetly  shy, 

I'll  twine  a  fragrant,  flowery  braid 

And  wreathe  thy  brow,  my  queen,  July 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  beside  the  sea, 

Where  wavelets  steal  to  kiss  the  strand, 
And  where  unrivaled  thou  shalt  be, 

I'll  wander  with  thee  hand  in  hand. 
Where  white-winged  skiffs  swift  skim  the  bay, 

And  Neptune  blinds  the  day-god's  eye, 
I'll  still  be  near  and  homage  pay 

And  deem  thee  peerless,  fair  July. 


AT    THE     GATES     OP^     NOON. 


\17HERK  do  the  gods  and  goddesses  dwell, 

Of  which  the  learned  speak  ? 
Is  Venus'  home  in  a  pink  sea  shell  ? 
Is  Neptune's  throne  on  the  ocean's  swell  ? 
And  Jove's  in  the  lightning  streak  ? 

Does  Pluto  reign  in  the  world  of  Night  ? 

Are  all  his  subjects  dark  ? 
Are  Luna's  eyes'those  lamps  of  light 
That,  glimmering,  hang  in  heaven's  height 

And  quench  when  sings  the  lark  ? 

Is  Vulcan  throned  in  .-Etna's  fire  ? 

Does  yet  his  anvil  ring  ? 
Does  Clio's  hand  still  grasp  the  lyre  ? 
Or  Thalia  mask  each  young  desire, 

And  Polyhymnia  sing  ? 

Where  does  Pallas  hold  her  court  ? 

Are  all  her  courtiers  wise  ? 
Does  Mars  command  a  British  fort  ? 
Or  is  he  of  Wolseley  making  sport 

Beneath  Soudanian  skies? 


138 


WHERE     ARE     THE    GODS? 

And  thousand  other  gods,  whose  names 

Are  known  to  learned  man, 
And  nymphs  divine  whose  rival  claims 
The  Romans  honored  with  festive  games 

When  Echo  slighted  Pan. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


's  Christmas 


DACK    through    the  mist  of  vanished    years 

*-*     fond  memory  wings  her  way 

To    friends    and    scenes    I  knew  and  loved  in 

childhood's  blissful  day  ; 
To  comrades  true  who  played  with  me  around 

the  firelight  bright  — 
O  memory  !    let  me  live  with  them  again  this 

Christmas  night. 

Oh,  let  me  take  my  father's  hand  and  press  it  to 

my  lip  ! 
And    lay    my    head    on    mother's    breast,     her 

honeyed  kisses  sip  ! 
With  sisters,  brothers,  steal  from  bed  to  place 

the  candle  light 
In  every  window,  as  I  did  on  boyhood's  Christ 

mas  night. 


140 


BOYHOOD'S     CHRISTMAS     NIGHT. 

And  dream  again  of  Santa  Claus — the  things  I 

wished  he'd  bring, 
And  sleep  the  sleep  of  innocence  untouched  by 

sorrow's  sting  ; 
Wake  to  behold  my  hopes  fulfilled — a  new  day 

dawning  bright — 
A    day    of   joy — as    once    I    did  on  boyhood's 

Christmas  night. 

The  stranger-land  may  freely  give  all  things  the 
worldly  prize, 

And  equal  place  the  lord  and  slave  in  law  and 
freedom's  eyes  ; 

But,  ah  !  it  never  can  restore  the  peace  and  pure 
delight 

The  exile  knew,  in  native  land,  on  every  Christ 
mas  night. 

There  is  within  the  Celtic  heart  a   something 

half  divine, 
Most  tender,  true  and  passionate — no  stranger 

can  define, 
That    fits  the  exile  to  the    land — wherever  he 

may  roam, 
But  chains  his  love,  through  weal  and  woe,  to 

native  land  and  home. 


141 


AT     THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 

I  have  my  share  of  bliss  and  joy — I  know  the 

pangs  of  woe — 
And    hope    still    leads    me    to  the  steep  where 

glory's  baubles  glow  ; 
But  I  would  lay  me  down  to-night,  nor  wake  to 

life  and  light, 
If  'twould  restore  the  joys  I  knew,  on  boyhood's 

Christmas  night. 


142 


OLD    YEAR,     GOOD     BYE. 


OLD  Year,  Good  bye  !     Old  Year,  good  bye  ! 
Earth  fadeth  from  thy  sight, 
And  dissolution's  cloak  draws  nigh 

To  curtain  thee  in  night. 
Tis  sad,  of  all  who  hailed  thy  birth 

"With  merry  song  and  cheer, 
How  few  deplore  thy  end  on  earth, 
Or  weep  around  thy  bier  ! 

O,  ripple  of  the  sea  of  time 

Receding  from  the  shore  ! 
Many  who  cheered  thy  natal  chime 

Have  gone,  ah  !  gone  before  ; 
Many  who  glowing  promise  gave — 

Hailed  thee  with  hearts  elate — 
Are  now  within  the  silent  grave, 

Or  'mono:  the  desolate. 


AT    THE    GATES    OF     NOOX. 

Oh,  leave  with  us,  thou  dying  Year  ! 

The  wisdom-lore  thou  hast 
That  we  life's  barque  may  safely  steer 

Through  rocks  that  wrecked  our  past, 
To  light  us  on  the  path  of  truth — 

Throughout  our  earthly  span — 
To  save  from  shame  the  erring  youth— 

The  wayward  youth  and  man. 


i44 


THE     SEA. 


Tlbe  Sea. 

'"THE  sea,  the  sea,  the  chainless  sea, 
*•       Restless  ever  and  ever  free, 
Beyond  proud  tyrant  man's  control ; 
True  type  of  the  immortal  soul, 
The  sea,  the  sea,  the  changeful  sea  ! 
Majestic,  mystic,  main  for  me. 

Now  dancing,  gliding  on  the  strand 
Like  playful  children  hand  in  hand, 
Now  rolling  high  with  rush  and  roar, 
Like  giants  struggling  on  the  shore  ; 
Now  laughing  round  the  rocks  in  glee, 
Like  prisoned  spirits  just  made  free. 

Now  sobbing,  sighing,  sad  refrain, 

As  if  its  soul  were  thrilled  with  pain  ; 

Now  rearing  high  its  gleaming  crest 

As  if  despair  had  seized  its  breast ; 

Till  now  with  awful  frenzied  roar 

Its  marshalled  columns  charge  the  shore. 


H5 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOOX. 

The  sea,  the  sea,  the  faithful  sea, 
Teacher  ever  and  guide  to  me  ; 
Reflecting  true  this  state  called  life, 
Human  passion,  sorrow  and  strife, 
But  constant  still  to  God's  command, 
Kissing  the  beach  or  lashing  the  strand. 


146 


TO    MY     FATHER. 


TTo  jflDv?  Jfatber. 


H,  my  father,  dearest  father  !  dearer  far  than 

life  to  me  ; 
More    beloved    than    life  was  ever,   dearer  far 

than  life  could  be, 
Tell  me  soon,  and  tell  me  truly,  ah  !  I'm  longing 

for  to  know  — 
And    to  know  it,  dearest  father,  might    dispel 

this  cloud  of  woe  — 
If,  when  brothers  and  my  sisters  and  the  friends 

my  childhood  knew, 
In  the  Spring  and  Winter  evenings  by  the  fire 

side  sit  with  you  ; 
Or  in  mellow  Autumn  weather,  or  when  Summer 

decks  the  lea, 
As  they  roam  my  native  valleys,  do  they  ever 

speak  of  me  ? 


'47 


AT    THE    GATES    OF     NOON. 

Oh,   they  would,  beloved  father  !  if  they  knew 

the  love  I  bear, 
And  the  wild  and  passionate  longing  once  again 

be  with  them  tJicrc  • 
If    they  knew    the  pain    and  anguish    and  the 

dreadful  cloud  of  woe 
That  has  ridged  my  youthful  forehead,  hangs 

above  where'er  I  go  ; 
All  the  toil  and  all  the  hardships  that  are  mine 

from  year  to  year  ; 
How    my    broken    heart    is    bleeding  -  all     my 

flowers  of  hope  are  sere  ; 
How  the  days  drag  slowly  onward,  through  the 

night  I  fight  with  care, 
Lest  it  would  dethrone  my  reason — lest  I  wither 

in  despair. 


And  bright  hopes  were  mine  in  boyhood,  nur 
tured  by  a  fancy  bright 

As  the  crystal  drops  that  linger  in  the  flowerets 
after  night ; 

They  were  hopes,  beloved  father,  that  some  fu 
ture  day  I'd  stand 

'Mid  the  great  and  valiant  champions  of  my 
hapless  Motherland  ; 


TO     MY     FATHER. 

That  some  day  when  I'd  be  stronger,  as  you 

taught  me  I  would  wield 
Till  the  Saxon  foe  was  routed,  your  bright  brand 

in  battle-field — 
I    would  die,  as  died  your  father,  or   I'd  make 

my  country  free, 
But  my  youthful  hopes  have  perished — I'm  an 

exile  o'er  the  sea  ! 


Far  away  from  all  I  cherish — all  on  earth  that's 

dear  to  me — 
What  care  I   how  soon  I  perish  ?     Father,  I've 

forgotten  thee  ; 
In   my  anguish,  I  forgot  thee,  but  I  know  thou 

wilt  forgive, 

Yes,  to  see  thee  and  my  Erin,  through  all  tor 
ments  I  would  live — 
Live  to  see  the  spreading  valley  that  I  love  with 

all  my  soul, 
And  the  winding,  green-fringed  rivers  dancing, 

laughing  as  they  roll — 
See  my  brothers  and  my  sisters,  and  the  friends 

who  care  for  me  , 
I  would  live  to  strike  for  Erin  !    I  would  live  to 

see  her  free  ! 


149 


AT    THE    GATES     OK    NOON. 

Then  I  care  not  when  I  perish,  for  I  long  to  be 

at  rest  • 
See  my  long-lost  darling  mother  in  the  kingdom 

of  the  blest. 
Then   I   care   not  ;  ah  !  I   care  not  when  my  sun 

of  life  may  set, 

For  my  dawn  has  been  a  sad  one,  and  the  noon 
tide  sadder  yet. 
But  I'll  stop  this  dreadful  wailing,  have  I  not  a 

soul  and  mind  ? 
Can    I    paint    no    brighter    picture — one    more 

cheering  to  mankind  ? 
No  ;  the  great  God  never  gave  me  life  to  fritter 

thus  away  ; 
I  will  burst  the  bonds  that  bind  me,  I  will  rush 

into  the  day. 


A     MOTHER'S     LAMENT    FOR     HKR     CHILO 


B  flfcotber's  OLament  for  foer  Cbilo. 

H  !  pulse  of  my  heart  and  light  of  my  day  ! 
My  joy  and  my  comfort,  my  bright  hope 

and  stay  ! 

Flower  of  my  soul,  my  sweet,  idolized  one, 
Why  hast  thou  withered  and  left  me  alone  ? 

Dream  of  delight,  thou  hast  faded  away 

From    the    shore    of    existence    like    sun-kissed 

spray, 

And  left  in  my  bosom  a  living  regret 
That,  try  as  I  may,  I  can  never  forget. 

Bright  were  thy  locks  as  the  eve's  golden  sky, 
And    heaven's  own  blue  could  not  rival  thine 

eye. 

Fair  was  thy  brow  as  the  young  apple  spray, 
A.nd  lovely  thy  smile  as  a  morning  in  May. 

Sweet  was  thy  breath  as  the  rose's  perfume, 
And  thy  voice  soft   as  angel-harps  breathing  in 

tune. 

Too  fair  was  thy  spirit  for  prison  of  clay, 
The  ang'els  released  it  and  bore  it  away. 


AT    THE     GATES    OF    NOON. 

Who  will  now  cheer  me  the  long,  dreary  day  ? 
Thou  wert  anear  me  when  all  were  away. 
Ah  !  merciless  Death,  why  didst  thou  destroy 
The  flower  of  my  soul,  my  own  idolized  boy  ?' 

Peace,  breaking  heart !  let  him  sleep  ;  it  is  well, 
He's  fled  from  the  strife  amid  angels  to  dwell — 
Gone  where  the  glory  of  sunshine  and  shower 
Will  nurture  eternal  my  beautiful  flower. 


LEO     XIII.     GOLDEN    JUBILEE. 


Xeo  XIII.  Golfcen  Jubilee. 


pole  to  pole,  from  rise  of  sun 
Until  it  kneels  before  the  West, 
Where  treasured  are  great  deeds  well  done, 

Wherever  throbs  a  Christian  breast, 
Let  Pagans  roll  to  Heaven  on  high, 
Te  Deums  mingle  grand  and  free, 
The  prince  of  princes  'neath  the  sky, 
Doth  celebrate  his  jubilee! 

Ten  lustrums  rolled  adown  the  past 

Since  Damietta  hailed  him  lord  ; 
Grim  War  since  then  oft  blew  his  blast, 

But  saintly  Leo  sheathed  the  sword. 
Perugia,  trembling  in  the  grasp 

Of  bandit  chiefs  and  lawless  guile, 
Beheld  his  iron  arm  unclasp 

The  chains  that  would  her  shrines  defile. 

Along  the  current  of  his  years 
Honor's  gems  are  thickly  cast  ; 

The  monuments  that  genius  rears 
All  earthly  titles  will  outlast. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Much  more  is  he  than  what  is  great ; 

The  world  no  more  to  him  can  bring 
He  sits  in  Peter's  royal  state, 

Is  Nature's  and  Religion's  King. 

His  path  is  sloping  down  the  west, 

The  gorgeous  light  of  eve  is  near  ; 
Yet  can  his  master  mind  attest 

In  righting  wrong,  that  it  is  clear. 
Oh,  may  the  sunset  splendid  be  ; 

But  grant,  O  God,  us  one  request, — 
That  many  years  shall  come  and  flee, 

Ere  Thou  shalt  take  him  to  the  blest. 


'54 


WHAT    CATHOLICS     HAVE     DONE     FOR    AMERICA. 


Mbat  Catbolics  1bav>e  Bone  ffor 
Bmerica. 


J\  A  EN  have  said  and  preached  and  written  for 
'     *      a  hundred  years  and  more, 
That  the  Catholics  were  never  an  advantage  to 
this  shore. 


They  have  shouted,  lay  and  cleric,  of  the  "pa 
triotic"  clan, 

That  America  owes  nothing  to  the  "Roman' 
Irishman. 

Come  and  read  our  country's  story,  and  behold 

how  they  have  lied, 
See  how  Catholics  discovered,  and  the  Irish  for 

her  died  ! 

Lo,  La  Casa,  famous  Pinzon,  with  Columbus  in 
command, 

Leaving  sunny  Spain  behind  them  for  a  vision 
ary  land. 


'55 


AT    THE     GATES    OF     NOON. 

And  Americus  Vespucius,  kneeling  at  the  papal 

throne, 
Asking  God  to  bless  and  guide  him,  in  his  quest 

of  lands  unknown. 

What  were  they  ?     I   ask  the  bigots  were  they 

Catholic  by  birth  ? 
Found  they  not  for  all  God's  people,  best  and 

greatest  land  on  earth  ? 

At  what  altar  prayed  the  Cabots,  great  De  Soto 

and  Champlain, 
And  the  world-renowned  Ualboa,  who  first  saw 

the  peaceful  main  ? 

Ponce  de  Leon,  Varrazani,  valiant  Cortez  and 

La  Salle, 
Father  Marquette,  Monk  La  Carron,  who  Lake 

Huron  loved  so  well. 

And  the  Admiral  Magellan,  who  first  sailed  the 

globe  around, 
And    Cartier,  who  Canada   and  the  grand  St. 

Lawrence  found  ? 


156 


\VHAT    CATHOLICS     HAVE     DONE     FOR     AMERICA. 

Few  I  name,  but  they  were  potent  in  revealing 

this  broad  land 
From  the  icy  hills  of  Greenland  to  the  torrid 

polar  strand. 

Turn  a  page,  and  view  the  founders  of  our  cities 

and  our  States, 
From  Quebec  to   St.   Augustine,  onward  to  the 

Golden  Gates. 

Were  not    Catholics  the  foremost  ?     First  and 

only  in  that  day 
To  protect  and  grant  all  people  right  to  worship 

their  own  way  ? 

Read    the     Revolution's    story — written    by    a 

truthful  hand — 
See  the  Catholics  who  suffered  and  the  outer 

ramparts  manned 

At  Long  Island,  Trenton,  Princeton,  Brandy- 
wine  and  Germantown, 

Monmouth,  Moultrie  and  Point  Stony,  Valley 
Forge  of  sad  renown, 


AT    THE    GATKS     OF     XOON. 

And  whose  blood  bedewed  each  valley,  and  en- 
crimsoned  every  rill, 

From  the  banks  of  Yorktown  River  back  to 
blood-stained  Bunker  Hill. 

Who  was  founder  of  our  navy  in  those  dark  and 

doubtful  days  ? 
Will  Jack  Barry  and  McDonough  ever  win  the 

bigot's  praise  ? 

Know    they    not   that  sons  of  Patrick,   who  it 

seems  they  cannot  bear, 
Saved  our  Washington  and  army  from  starvation 

and  despair  ? 

Do  they  know  that  "Romish"  Poland,  "popish' 

Spain  and  "papist"  France, 
Sent  their  ships  to  aid  our  struggle,  —  warlike 

men  with  gleaming  lance  ? 

Have  they  heard  of  great  Pulaski,  Rochambeati 

and  Lafayette, 
The  immortal  Kosciusko,  whose  fame's  sun  shall 

never  set ; 


158 


WHAT     CATHOLICS     HAVE     DONE     FOR     AMERICA. 

Gallant  Moylan,  and  O'Brien  ;  Carroll,  he  whose 

noble  hand 
Signed  the  scroll  of  independence  for  the  State 

of  Maryland, 

And  the  thousand  other  brave  men,  who  fought 

well  for  Freedom's  Chart, 
And  whose  names  and  deeds  are  graven  on  the 

Nation's  grateful  heart  ? 


And  again  in  the   Rebellion  !     Lo,  the  records 

brave  and  bright, 
Of  the  fearless  sons  of  Erin  in  the  awful,  bloody 

fight 


At  Fair  Oaks  and  Lookout  Mountain,  Gettys 
burg  of  deathless  fame  ; 

Shiloh,  Corinth  and  Antietam — Glory  yet  de 
lights  to  name. 

And  at  Fredericksburg  and  Vicksburg  where 
they  charged  through  shot  and  shell, 

Till  the  rebels  ran  before  them  as  from  out  the 
mouth  of  hell ; 


'59 


AT     THE     GATES    OF     NOON. 

Heard  they  of  heroic  Meagher,  dashing  Sheri 
dan  and  Shields, 

Dauntless  Corcoran,  Phil  Kearney,  hero  of 
Chantilly's  fields  ; 

But  why  thus  pursue  the  story  of  the  Catholic  s 

high  deeds  ; 
It  is  simply  wasting  paper  for  the  bigot  never 

reads. 


1 60 


A     CHILD. 


H  CMI&. 

A    VIOLET  of  the  early  spring, 
**•     Or  snowdrop  only  half  revealed, 
Or  like  a  primrose  blossoming 

In  some  sequestered,  south-kissed  field, 
Death-chilled  by  lingering  Winter's  breath  ; 

Cold  lay  the  darling  baby  boy 
Within  the  frosty  lap  of  Death, 

While  round  him  wept  Love,  Hope  and  Joy. 

The  soulful  eyes  through  which  once  shone 

Affection's  sweet  and  tender  ray  ; 
With  heavy  lids  are  pressed  upon 

Like  midnight's  mantle  wrapping  day. 
The  ruby  lips  are  white  as  snow, 

The  voice  that  welcomed  is  no  more, 
Ah  !  there's  no  measuring  the  woe 

That  follows  Death  to  every  door. 


161 


AT     THE     GATES    OF     NOON. 

But  there's  a  morn  to  every  night ; 

And  there's  a  joy  to  every  pain  ; 
And  Faith  can  view  another  light 

In  Heaven's  latest  angel-gain» 
The  debt  of  nature  must  be  paid, 

All  that's  mortal  sure  must  die  ; 
Then  who  would  baby's  soul  have  stayed 

From  cleaving  to  its  God  on  high  ? 


R.     W. 


tR.  m. 

A  H,  no  !  not  mine  the  gift  to  tell  in  rhyme 
•**•         The  grief  I  feel 
For  him  who  was  my  friend.      Some  other  time, 

When  I  can  kneel 
Upon  the  sacred  clay  that  wraps  his  breast 

Alone,  where  dwelt 
A  heart  as  noble  as  yet  ever  blest 

A  home,  or  felt 

Man's    woes :   perchance  I  then  may  weave  in 
rhyme 

Above  his  clay 
My  grief,  new-born  at  vesper  bell's  sad  chime — 

But  not  to-day. 

There  is  the  empty  chair  wherein  he  sat, 

When  first  we  met ; 
His  rousing  welcome  and  the  after-chat 

I'll  ne'er  forget. 
1  was  an  exile  from  the  land  he  loved 

And  toiled  to  free. 


163 


AT    THE    GATES     OF     NOON. 

His  love  for  Liberty  each  sentence  proved, 

He  spoke  to  me. 
I  read  within  his  eye  and  in  his  face 

His  life's  one  scheme — 
To  lift  his  country  to  her  rightful  place. 

He's  dead  !     Vain  dream  ! 

And  will  1  never  see  his  face  again, 

Nor  hear  his  voice 
That  was  a  living  antidote  to  pain  ? 

All  would  rejoice 
On  entering  here,  where  many  a  year 

He  welcomed  all, 
And  was  the  sage  and  witty  charioteer 

( If  I  can  call 
Him  such)  to  the  vehicle  of  his  thought. 

Ah,  nevermore  ! 
Life's  sun  is  set — his  gentle  soul  has  sought 

The  silent  shore. 

Oh  !  verdant  be  the  turf  that  shrouds  his  breast 

As  that  dear  isle 
He  loved  so  well,  wherein  he  longed  to  rest ; 

And  may  the  smile 
Of  Heaven's  endless  day  an  aureole 

Immortal  crown 


164 


R.     W. 

The  generous  spirit  of  his  lofty  soul — 

Ah  !  too  soon  flown. 
But  while  the  changing  seasons  come  and  go, 

Till  memory  dies, 

From   hearts   that   loved   him   many  tears  shall 
flow— 

Regrets  arise. 


AT    THE    GATES     OF     NOON 


A  GAIN,  remorseless  death  has  come 
•**•      And  snatched  the  idol  of  our  soul  ; 
Again,  the  heart-enshrouding  gloom 
Pall-like,  has  wrapt  our  mind  and  home 
And  brought  us  grief  and  dole. 

But  two  short  years  ago  to-day, 

An  angel  in  his  upward  flight 
Tore  from  our  hearts  our  darling  May, 
And  left  us  here  to  grief  a  prey 

And  changed  our  day  to  night. 

And  ere  her  form  was  cold  in  clay, 
God's  angel  came  to  us  once  more, 

Another  victim  claimed  as  prey, 

And  little  Arthur  bore  away 
To  God's  eternal  shore. 

And  now,  O  Death  !  why  so  unkind  ? 

Thou  mightst  have  spared  our  darling  boy, 
We  know  that  we  should  be  resigned, 
But  yet,  round  .him  our  hearts  were  twined, 

He  was  our  hope,  our  only  joy. 


1 66 


JAMES. 

Ah  !  will  \ve  never  more  behold 

Those  eyes  where  fond  affection  beamed  ? 
The  flowing  curls,  like  burnished  gold 
That  down  his  shapely  shoulders  rolled, 

That  brow  where  budding  genius  gleamed  ? 

'Tis  hard  to  bear,  but  yet  to-day 

We  bow  to  our  Creator's  will, 
And  tenderly  his  form  we  lay 
Beside  sweet  Arthur,  darling  May, 

On  Calvary's  silent  hill. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


OH,  Great  King  of  Heaven  and  Lord  of  the 
earth  ! 

And  Virgin  of  virgins  who  gave  to  Thee  birth  ! 
Forgive  !  But  my  soul,  half  despairing  will  say, 
Ah  !  why  did  You  take  from  us  our  darling  May  ? 


Why  ?  why  ?  dim  forever  the  liquid  blue  eye, 
And  banish  the  smile  that  brought  heaven  so 

nigh  ? 
Why  hush  the  sweet  voice  that  oft  conquered 

despair 
And    stiffen    the    hand  that  could  brush  away 

care  ? 

She  was  gentle  and  wise,  ah  !  perchance  far  too 

wise, 
And  she  thirsted  for  knowledge  of  stars  and  of 

skies, 

And  I  oft  told  her  stories  too  mystic  for  youth — 
She  has  solved  the  great  problem  and  tasted  of 

truth. 


1 68 


MAY. 

Oh  !  clothe  our  sweet  darling  in  garments  of 
white  ; 

She  loved  them  on  earth — and  her  spirit  was 
bright, 

And  place  her  where  roses  eternally  bloom, 

And  violets  shed  'round  her  their  sweetest  per 
fume. 

She  ope'd  like  the  rose — was  as  sweet  and  as 
fair — 

To  the  sun's  golden  kisses  that  dwelt  in  her 
hair. 

She  fled  with  the  roses  in  Summer's  decline, 

She  was  pulse  of  our  heart,  but  to  God  we  re 
sign. 


169 


AT    THK    GATES     OF     XOON. 


©b  Hsfc  Me  IRot  HfflfoB  Hm  11 


!  ask  me  not  why  am  I  sad, 
And  plaintive  is  my  lay  ; 
\Yhy  am  I  now  less  gay  and  glad 

Than  I  have  been  alway  ; 
And  why  I  hate  again  to  see 

The  scenes  that  once  were  dear, 
Which  in  my  breast  such  ecstacy 
Awoke,  when  thou  wert  near. 

Oh  !  how  can  I  be  happy  now, 

Light-hearted,  merry,  gay  ; 
Contentment's  smile  wear  on  my  brow, 

And  thou  so  far  away  ? 
The  scenes  that  once  were  Eden-bright 

And  Eden-dear  to  me 
Seem  cheerless  now  as  winter  night 

And  bare  as  Ben   a    Rec. 

The  soaring  lark's  entrancing  song, 
Poured  in  the  ear  of  Morn  ; 

The  dimpling  stream  that  laughs  along 
Of  music  now  is  shorn. 


170 


OH     ASK     ME     NOT     WHY     AM     I     SAD. 

The  leafy  dell  where,  glancing  bright, 
The  shimmering  moonbeams  stole 

To  kiss  thy  soft  throat's  milky-white, 
Xo  more  can   charm  my  soul. 

The  morning  beam  that  chases  night 

Behind  the  western  bar, 
And  drowns  in  its  refulgent  light 

The  day's  devoted  star  ; 
The  thirsty  sun  that,  panting  sips, 

The  chalice  of  the  flowers, 
Have  failed  to  light  the  dark  eclipse 

That  o'er  my  pathway  lowers. 

Oh,  come  once  more  asthore  machree 

To  this  fond  heart  of  mine, 
And  all  these  clouds  will  quickly  flee, 

The  vale  in  beauty  shine  ; 
The  streams  will  sweetly  laugh  along 

Amid  the  bright-eyed  flowers  ; 
The  matin  lark  will  trill  its  song 

As  in  the  olden  hours. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


H&fcu ! 


A  DIEU  !     And  may  your  voyage  be  fair 
**     Across  the  rolling  sea  ; 
May  sky  and  wave  their  brightest  wear, 

To  make  it  sweet  for  thee  ; 
For  never  did  the  ocean  bear 

Upon  its  swelling  wave 
A  purer  soul,  a  mind  more  rare, 

A  heart  more  true  and  brave. 


Adieu  !     And  when  you  gaze  at  night 

Far  out  upon  the  sea, 
On  Luna's  crystal  lamp  of  light, 

One  moment  think  of  me — 
Remember  that  another's  sight 

Is  fixed  upon  it,  too, 
Who  feels,  though  lone,  a  calm  delight 

To  think  it  meets  thy  view. 


Oh  !  you  shall  see  the  land  we  love, 

And  press  its  verdant  breast — 
View  gentle  May  robe  vale  and  grove 

In  nature's  richest  vest  ; 
Adown  our  native  valley  rove, 

Where  bright  streams  laugh  along, 
And  where  my  youthful  thoughts  I  wove 

Into  a  web  of  song. 

And  you  shall  see  the  friends  we  prize — 

The  friends  of  boyhood's  day — 
And  look  into  their  love-lit  eyes, 

And  list  their  laughter  gay. 
But  I  must  tread  'neath  alien  skies 

My  weary  path  alone, 
And  feel  each  dreary  hour  that  flies 

My  dearest  friend  is  gone. 

Oh  !  take  my  blessing  to  that  land, 

To  every  one  I  knew  ; 
And  say,  though  on  a  foreign  strand, 

I  still  am  fondly  true. 
Tell  them  when  Erin  shall  demand 

What  lost  she  long  ago, 
My  brand  shall  be  the  foremost  brand 

To  flash  before  the  foe. 


'73 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

And  should  you  ever  come  again 

Across  the  rolling  wave, 
Oh,  bring  to  me  a  shamrock  green 

Plucked  from  my  mother's  grave  ; 
More  prized  'twill  be  than  all  the  gifts 

That  friendship  can  bestow — 
More  fondly  treasured  in  my  heart 

Than  man  can  ever  know. 


TO    A    CHILD. 


a 


T^AIR  little  rosebud,  fragrant  and  bright, 

Daughter  of  beauty  and  laughter  and  light  ; 
What  will  I  sing  to  thee,  what  will  I  say, 
Or  wish  thee,  sweet  Mamie,  on  thy  natal  day  ? 

Can    I   wish   thee  more  fair  than   this  moment 

thou  art  — 
More    dear    to    my    own    or    thy  fond  parents' 

heart  ? 

No  song  can  I  sing,  no  poem  can  I  write, 
That   can   truly  thy  sweet  budding  charms  re 

cite. 

May   thy  future  be  crowned  with  the  sunshine 

of  peace, 
And    may   angels    to  guard   and   to  guide  thee 

ne'er  cease. 

I  love  thee  so  dearly,  I  cannot  half  say, 
The  blessings  !  wish  thee  on  thy  natal  day. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 


TLrue  Xove. 

,  what  on  earth  is  half  so  sweet 
As  love,  true  love  ? 
An  equal  joy  you'll  only  meet 

In  realms  above, 
Where  all  is  beauty,  all  is  bliss — 
One  long  day  of  happiness. 

Oh,  what  on  earth  is  half  so  bright 

As  love,  true  love  ? 
What  thrills  the  heart  with  such  delight 

As  love,  true  love  ? 

Not  all  the  song  birds,  all  the  flowers, 
That  sing  or  bloom  in  earthly  bowers. 

Oh,  what  on  earth  is  half  so  grand 

As  love,  true  love  ? 
Be  its  chain  for  motherland 

Or  mankind  wove  ; 
Its  every  link  is  rarer  gem 
Than  ever  flashed  in  diadem. 


176 


TO     MAY. 


^TWELVE  months  to-day 
1       Is  little  May, 

My  inmost  soul's  fond  treasure  ; 
And  like  a  fay 
In  lap  of  May 

She  sings  an  untaught  measure. 

And  I  rejoice 
To  hear  a  voice 

So  pure,  so  sweet  and  simple, 
A  mine  of  gold 
Her  cheeks  unfold 

In  every  little  dimple. 

I  never  knew 
Such  eyes  of  blue 

As  these  now  on  me  beaming, 
Like  morning  light 
Dispelling  night, 

Their  rays  are  on  me  streaming. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

The  golden  ray 
Of  fading  day 

Is  hidden  in  her  tresses, 
And  soft  as  rest 
On  lily's  breast 

The  dews  are  her  caresses. 

May  little  May, 
Each  future  day, 

Be  crowned  with  joy  and  pleasure, 
And  may  she  be 
As  now  is  she 

Her  parents'  hope  and  treasure. 


178 


ANNIE. 


Hume. 

RIGHT  as  the  face  of  a  Morning  in  May, 
When    from    the    East   it    wings  forth   its 

bright  way  ; 

Sweet  as  the  thrushes'  first  note  in  the  grove, 
Or  pale,  infant  primrose,  is  Annie,  my  love. 

Pure  as  the  dew-drops  that  lovingly  creep 
Into  the  young  lily's  bosom  to  sleep  ; 
And  fair  as  the  hawthorn  wreath  that  is  wove 
By  Nature's  own  hand,  is  Annie,  my  love. 

Chaste  as  the  breath  that  at  eventide  flows 
From  the  bright  dewy  lips  of  the  opening  rose  ; 
True  as  the  vow  of  seraph  above, 
Rarest  of  rare  ones,  is  Annie,  my  love. 


AT    THE    GATES     OF     NOON. 


Xittle 


you  love  me,  sweet  Maggie  Magee  ? 
And  would  you  be  happy  with  me, 

Machree  ? 
My  dear  little  wife  will  you  be 

And  see 
If  you  could  be  happy  with  me  ? 

I  love  you,  sweet  Maggie  Magee  ! 
Ah  !  more  than  I  can  tell  to  thee 

Machree  ! 
I  would  forfeit  the  world,  quite  free 

for  thee,  — 
My  life  I  would  give  up  for  thee  ! 

I  am  lonely,  sweet  Maggie  Magee  ! 
And  you  can  bring  comfort  to  me, 

Machree  ! 
My  home  by  the  beautiful  Lee 

Wants  thee  — 
My  vine-bowered  cot  by  the  Lee. 


i  So 


LITTLE    TOMMY'S     WOOING. 

You'll  be  welcome  there,  Maggie  Magee  ! 
The  flowers  may  be  jealous  of  thee, 

Machree  ! 
But  the  sunbeams  will  gather  in  glee 

Round  thee — 
Oh  !  you  will  be  queen  of  the  Lee. 

Will  you  marry  me,  Maggie  Magee  ? 
Just  whisper  the  answer  to  me, 

Machree  ! 
Or  if  you  prefer,  let  it  be 

One  wee — 
One  wee  little  kiss  let  it  be  ! 


iSl 


AT    THE     GATF.S     OF     NOON. 


Hnnie  36an  /IDacbree. 

\I  7HKRK  winding  Suck  in  beauty  roams 

'Neath  'Talbot's  spreading  shade, 
And  crystal  Mina  laughing  comes 

Adown  its  fragiant  glade, 
As  modest  as  the  violet  bells, 

Half  hidden  o'er  the  lea  ; 
In  native  grace  and  beauty  dwells 

My  Annie  Ban  Machree. 

Her  lofty  brow  is  purer  white 

Than  opening  lily  leaves, 
O'erhung  with  golden  tresses  bright 

As  sunset  Summer  eves  ; 
Her  laughing  brown  eyes'  tender  beam 

Seemed  when  we  met  to  me 
Like  quivering  starlight  in  the  stream — 

My  Annie  Ban  Machree. 

And  oft'  we  met  in  Summer  eves 

In  that  delightful  vale, 
Beside  the  stream,  amid  the  leaves, 

Anew  to  tell  our  tale  ; 


ANNIE     BAN     MACHRKE. 

\Yhile  song-birds  poured  above  our  head 

Their  witching  melody, 
Which  echoes  seemed  of  sweet  words  said 

By  Annie  Ban  Machree. 

But  1  was  forced,  my  Annie  Ban, 

To  foreign  lands  to  roam 
To  seek  my  share  from  Fortune's  hand, 

That  Fate  denied  at  home. 
It  was  for  thy  dear  sake  I  came  ; 

And  I'll  return  to  thee, 
With  wealth  to  crown,  and  heart  the  same, 

MY  Annie  Ban  Machree. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON 


Belle  of  JSunfeer  Dili. 


DENEATH  the  stately  monument 
*~*     That  crowns  the  storied  mound, 
Where  British  ranks  brave  Prescott  rent 

And  Warren  glory  found, 
Deep  musing  on  the  men  of  eld 

Whose  Fame  lives  with  us  still, 
One  Autumn  eve,  I  first  beheld, 
The  Belle  of  Bunker  Hill. 

As  gracefully  as  sailing  ship 

Glides  on  a  moonlit  sea, 
When  argent  waves,  with  snowy  lip, 

Dance  round  the  prow  in  glee, 
She  came  aloft  the  stony  stair 

And  crossed  the  sloping  hill, 
While  sinking  sun  and  pulsing  air 

Adoring  her  stood  still. 

Upon  her  cheek  the  kiss  of  Dawn  ; 

Her  brow  was  lily  fair, 
The  warp  of  Evening's  golden  lawn 

Was  tangled  in  her  hair  ; 


:S4 


THE     BELLE     OF     BUNKER     HILL. 

And  brilliant  as  the  lightning's  lance 
Unsheathed  in  midnight  sky, 

Flashed  every  sweet  and  melting  glance 
Of  her  bewitching  eye. 

She  went.     The  grace  and  beauty  fled 

From  everything  around  ; 
And  Night,  with  sable  wings  outspread, 

Descended  on  the  mound. 
The  regal  Moon  regained  her  throne, 

Yet  there  I  lingered  still 
And  vowed  earth  had  one  queen  alone — 

The  Belle  of  Bunker  Hill. 


185 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


\17HEN    we    parted,    Mavourneen — and    sad 

was  the  parting  ! 
A   hope   buoyed   my   soul    I    would  see   thee 

again  ; 

That  hope,  like  a  star,  lit  my  pathway  at  start 
ing 
To  leave  all   I  cherished  and  cross  the  wide 

main 

Wherever  I  roamed  in  the  land  of  the  stranger, 
In  moments  of  joy  or  when  clouds  would  ap 
pear, 
Like  an   angel  to  cheer  me  and  guide  me  from 

danger, 
Annie,  Mavourneen,  thine  image  was  near. 

If  I  but  knew  that  I  still  am  remembered — 
That  even  a  thought  you  have  given  to  me, 

The  pains  I've  endured  and  the  sorrows  unnum 
bered — 
Would  melt  in  the  arms  of  wild  ecstacy, 


1 86 


SONG. 

Earth  would  be  fairer  and  life  would  be  dearer, 
Hope  on  my  pathway  would  smile  as  of  yore  ; 

Fancy  would  bring  all  I  love  to  me  nearer — 
My  heart's  idol,  Annie,  and  my  native  shore. 

What    were    a    Kingdom    to  me,  love,  without 
thee  ? 

\Yhat  were  a  crown  but  a  weight  on  my  brow  ? 
Beauty  and  love  have  hung  jewels  about  thee 

A  King  or  a  Kingdom  could  never  endow. 
Annie,  Mavourneen!  though  sad  was  the  parting 

The  meeting  will  pay  for  a  lifetime  of  pain, 
And  homeward  will  soon  the  fond  exile  be  start 
ing 

To  claim  his  heart's  idol  and  part  not  again. 


187 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Sbatterefc  Ibopes. 

T    IVE    there  men  who  love  to  ponder,   roam 

•*— '     they  in  whatever  clime, 

On    the    sweetness    of    life's  morning,  on  their 

childhood's  happy  time — 
The  wild  roaming  in  the  meadows,  down  beside 

the  laughing  rills, 

And  the  meetings,  Sunday  evenings,  on  the  fort- 
crowned,  sloping  hills, 
In  that  land  of  song  and  story,  far  away  beyond 

the  sea ; 
That  bright  land  of  fame  and  glory,  dear  as  life 

itself  to  me  ? 
Live  there    men  who    love  to  ponder,   on  that 

blissful  long  ago, 
Yet,  in  musing,  ope  the  flood  gates  of  a  surging 

tide  of  woe  ? 
See,  from  every  hill  and  valley,  that  to  shape 

can  memory  start, 
Arrows  —  quivering,    poisoned    arrows — fly    to 

wound  anew  the  heart. 
If  there  live  such  let  them  listen,  and  in  true, 

though  humble  strain, 
I  will   tell   them   my  youth's  story,   all   its  bliss 

and  all  its  pain — 


iSS 


SHATTERED     HOPES. 


How  we  met,  and  why  we  parted,  how  we  loved 

in  vain  but  well — 
Ah  !    'twill  soothe  my  aching  bosom  that   sad 

tale  of  love  to  tell. 


We  were  little  ones  together ;  many  a  time  in 

early  spring, 
\Yhen  the  primrose  gems  the  valley,  and  the  bee 

is  on  the  wing, 
Did  we  sit  for  hours  together,  where  the  river 

winds  along 

Through  sweet  Ougham — native  valley — listen 
ing  to  the  thrush's  song. 
Then  we  built  our  airy  castles,  and  we  furnished 

them  with  care  ; 
And  we  talked  about  the  flowers  and  the  song 

birds  we'd  have  there. 
Childhood  knows  nor  rank  nor  station ;  childhood 

cares  not  for  a  caste  ; 
Thus,    in    roaming    and    in    dreaming,    all    our 

youthful  days  we  passed. 
Then  she  went  into  the  convent  school ;  I  sawr 

her  not  for  years  ; 
But  she  wrote  me  oft  and  told  me — for  I  spoke 

to  her  of  fears : 


189 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON, 

"Never    while    the    gentle  river  glides  beneath 

Kilterra's  shade, 
While  a  tree  stoops  down  to  kiss  it,  will  I  break 

the  vows  I  made. 
Chase    away   your  fears ;    be  happy ;  time  will 

show  you  I  am  true  : 
All  the  earthly  love  and  cherish  could  not  bribe 

niv  love  from  you." 


She  came  back  again  ;  I  met  her  one  calm  even' 
tide  in  May — 

She  was  stately,  tall  and  graceful,  she  was 
brighter  than  the  day  ; 

And  her  cheeks  were  like  the  rose-beams  smiling 
Morn  softly  flings 

On  the  hills  and  on  the  valleys,  as  its  way  it 
westward  wings  ; 

And  her  hair  was  soft  and  golden  as  the  evening- 
beam  caressed 

In  the  arms  of  the  Lily,  when  the  sun  retires  to 
rest. 

And,  oh  !  naught  could  match  the  love-beam  of 
her  liquid  deep-blue  eye, 

Save  the  smiling  of  the  Eve-star,  in  her  own  un 
clouded  sky. 


190 


SHATTERED     HOPES. 

Oh,  the  meeting  !  oh,  the  greeting  !  Never  shall 
my  heart  forget ; 

And  her  voice's  mellow  sweetness  lingers  in  my 
memory  yet. 

Oh,  the  joy  !  the  bliss  !  the  rapture  !  of  the  pure, 
the  fond  embrace — 

Heaven  seemed  to  shed  the  glory  of  its  sweet 
ness  on  the  place  ; 

And  the  future  lay  before  me  like  a  glimpse  of 
paradise, 

Sorrows  seemed  to  vanish  mist-like,  in  the  sun 
light  of  her  eyes. 


But  her  father,  he  was  wealthy,  and  a  humble 

peasant  I — 
Dare  I  woo  his  lovely  daughter  ;  dare  I  think  of 

one  so  high  ! 
He  a  lord  of  princely  mansions,  woods  extensive, 

spreading  plains, 
Would  have  wed  his  cultured  daughter  to  some 

lord  of  wide  domains  ; 
And  he  found  one,  and  he  forced  her  to  become 

that  lordling's  bride, 
Tore  her  from  my    bleeding  bosom    and   most 

grossly  to  her  lied. 


191 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

As  the  ivy  pines  that's  torn    from  the  stately 

forest  tree, 
That    it    clasps    within    its  arms  and  entwines 

most  lovingly  ; 
As  the  flowers  which  Summer  nourished  in  the 

Autumn  blasts  decay, 
So  my  loved  one,  torn  from  me,  broken-hearted 

pined  away. 

Oh,  the  torture  !  oh,  the  anguish  !  oh,  the  heart- 
corroding  pain  ! 
Oh,  the  eager,  ceaseless  longing  to  behold  her 

face  again  ! 
It  was  wrong,  perhaps,  to  make  it,  but  it  should 

not  be  denied — 
The  one  request  I  craved  of  them  to  once  see 

her  when  she  died. 


From    that    hour,  within    my  bosom  burned    a 

deathless  flame  of  hate, 
And  my  soul  cried    out  for   vengeance — blood 

alone  could  satiate. 
I  was  calm  at  times  and  tried  me  to  forget  and 

to  forgive, 
And  I  drowned  in  tears  that  hate-flame,  till  I 

thought  it  could  not  live. 


192 


SHATTERED     HOPES. 

But    one    evening   in  September — she  was  two 

weeks  buried  then — 
I  went — it  was  my  custom — to  the  churchyard 

in  the  glen  ; 
All  was  still — was  wrapt  in  night-robes — as  I 

knelt  me  on  her  grave  ; 
And  I  wept,  I  raved,  I  questioned,  and  I  thought 

she  answer  gave. 
Then    rolled    forth   the  tide  of  vengeance  and 

swept  all  resolve  away, 
And  I  drifted  on  its  current,  till  the  dawning  of 

the  day, 
When    I    found    me    near    his   mansion,   in  the 

bower  she  loved  the  best, 
In  my  ears  still  ringing  "vengeance" — demons 

urging  in  my  breast. 


With    the  Day-god  came  her  father,   down  the 

dew-gemmed,  velvet  lawn  ; 
And  I  waited,  as  the  tiger  waits  the  coming  of 

the  fawn  ; 
Nearer,    nearer,    unsuspecting,    on    his   wonted 

round  he  came, 
Every  forward  step  increasing  in  my  breast  the 

vengeance  flame. 


193 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON 

Oh  !    the    wild    beast,     hunger-frenzied,     never 

rushed  upon  its  prey 
With  the  fury  that  possessed  me  as  I   dashed 

him  to  the  clay — 
And  that  moment  were  his  last  one,  for  my  hand 

was  raised  to  smite, 
When  the  wraith  of  my  beloved  one,   and  his 

daughter  met  my  sight — 
There    she    knelt    with    arms    extended    and    I 

thought  she  murmured  "Spare "- 
That    is    all    that    I    remember — strength    and 

senses  fled  me  there. 
For  a  month,  with  raging  fever,  I  lay  senseless, 

raving  wild, 
And  the  man  I  would  have  murdered  nursed  me 

as  he  would  his  child. 
There  is  pity  in  the  world  yet  and  some  good  in 

every  heart, 
But  often  'tis  the  hand  would  shield  unconscious 

wings  the  dart. 


194 


POPPING    THE     QUESTION'. 


popping  tbe  Question. 

\1  7E  sat  to  rest  upon  a  rustic  seat 
*  *        My  love  and  I, 
Within  as  beautiful  and  fair  retreat 

As  ever  eye 

Of  mortal  gazed  upon  in  flowery  May  ; 
The  Sun  was  kissing  his  adieu  to  Day, 
The  clouds  were  blushing  like  a  bashful  maid 
When  love's  first  kiss  upon  her  lips  is  laid. 

We  had  been  friends  from  childhood's  blissful 
time, 

And  often  met ; 
I  praised  her  charms  in  many  a  cadenced  rhyme, 

But  never  yet 

Could  tell  the  passion  that  consumed  my  breast, 
The  ceaseless  longing  and  the  wild  unrest. 
O  love  !  —  first  love  !  —  thou  art  a  blissful  thing, 
But  unconfessed  thou  hast  a  biting  sting. 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

And  who  that  ever  fondly,  truly  loved, 

The  loved  one  near, 

His  tongue  found  chainless  and  his  heart  un_ 
moved, 

His  vision  clear  ? 

Long  there  1  lingered  but  no  word  could  speak, 
Her  lily  hand  was  clasped  in  mine,  her  cheek 
Rocked  on  the  pillow  of  my  heaving  breast — 
The    world     was     conquered     were     my    love 

confessed! 

At  length  I  talked  about  the  golden  eve, 

The  peaceful  grove  ; 
A  thousand  times  I  vainly  tried  to  weave 

My  web  of  love. 

One  mighty  effort,  and  the  tale  was  told  ! 
She  blushed  a  little,  and  methought  grew  cold  ; 
One  kiss  of  rapture  and  one  fond  caress, 
I  popped  the  question,  and  she  answered,  "Yes." 

Oh,  bright  and  peaceful  as  a  summer  day, 

Or  autumn  night, 
When  countless  stars  begem  the  cloudless  way 

Of  Luna  bright ; 
My    barque  since  then  has  glided  down    life's 

stream, 


196 


POPPING    THE     QUESTION. 

My  soul  has  slumbered  in  connubial  dream, 
And    heaven  and  earth  seems  robed  in   richer 

dress — 
Oh  !  love's  the  essence  of  all  happiness. 


197 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


/IDooel  of  flfcx?  Xafcp's  fmnfc, 


/\  A  Y  song  is  not  of  love-lit  eyes, 

*     '      In  which  the  soul  reflected  gleams, 

Nor  of  those  fairy-forms  that  rise 

To  haunt  the  love-sick  in  their  dreams  ; 
One  of  the  thousand  charms  I  sing, 

That  Nature  in  a  maiden  plan'cl  ; 
How  Art  that  beauty  worshipping 

Produced  a  model  of  her  hand. 

Here  on  my  desk  that  model  lies, 

And  oft  I  fancy  as  I  view, 
Within  its  veins  life's  current  hies, 

So  real  the  image  and  so  true  ; 
And  as  I  trace  each  beauty-line 

That  tapers  to  its  finger  tips, 
I  wish  the  legal  right  were  mine 

To  press  the  real  one  to  my  lips. 


THE    MODEL     OF     MY     LADY'S     HAXD. 

Some  may  love  the  beaming  eye — 

The  rose's  kisses  on  the  cheeks  ; 
Others  rave  of  charms  that  lie 

In  woman's  lips  whene'er  she  speaks  ; 
But  oh  !  the  fairest  thing  to  me 

That  Art  or  Nature  ever  plan'd 
If  she  herself  would  dearer  be — 

The  model  of  mv  laclv's  hand. 


199 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 

Us  it  %ov>e? 

M 


Y  Annie  ! 

If  it  be  love  to  think  of  thee 


From  smiling  morn  to  blushing  eve, 
When  toiling  hard  or  roaming  free 

Amid  the  gay  or  those  who  grieve  ; 
To  dream  of  thee  and  only  thee, 

Through  every  changing  hour  of  night 
To  long  for  morn  thy  face  to  see 

As  sightless  mortals  long  for  sight. 
If  thinking,  dreaming  thus  of  thee 
Is  love,  what  mortal  loves  like  me 
My  Annie  ? 

My  Annie  ! 
Oh  !  if  'tis  love  to  ever  be 

Unhappy  when  thou  art  away, 
To  count  the  moments  as  they  flee, 

And  think  a  minute  long  as  day  ; 
To  feel  my  pulse  and  bosom  dance 

With  longings  that  I  can't  explain, 
To  meet  thy  brown  eyes'  liquid  glance, 

And  clasp  thee  in  my  arms  again — 
If  ever  feeling  thus  for  thee 
Is  love,  what  mortal  loves  like  me, 
My  Annie  ? 


IS     IT    LOVE? 

My  Annie  ! 
If  it  be  love  to  think  that  thou 

Art  fairer  than  the  moon  and  stars 
That  gem  the  midnight's  sable  brow, 

Or  Morning's  smile  through  orient  bars, 
Be  chained  to  silence  when  thou'rt  near 

And  eloquent  when  thou'rt  away  ; 
To  ever  hope  and  ever  fear, 

Rebel  forever  and  obey — 
If  living  thus  alone  for  thee 
Is  love,  what  mortal  loves  like  me, 
My  Annie  ? 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 


2>arlinc5,  Sim]  tbe  Sons 


DARLINCI,  sing  the  song  again, 
You  sang  to  me  long,  long  ago  ; 
I  love  to  hear  the  good  old  strain 

Like  angels'  whisper  sweetly  flow, 
The  sad,  sweet  music  of  your  voice 

By  love  and  truth  made  sweeter  still, 
Could  ever  make  my  soul  rejoice, 
My  inmost  heart  with  rapture  thrill. 

Oh  !  sing  for  me  the  sweet  old  strain, 

'Tis  years  since  I  have  heard  it  last  ; 
To  hear  the  soothing  strains  again, 

Will  bring  me  back  the  happy  past. 
Though  many  songs  of  other  days, 

Are  fondly  treasured  in  my  breast, 
Oh  !  this  of  all  those  golden  lays, 

I  love  the  fondest,  dearest,  best. 


O     DARLING,     SING     THE     SONG     AGAIN! 

Whene'er  from  lips  so  pure  as  thine, 

I  hear  such  thrilling  music  flow, 
It  brings  me  back  on  wings  divine 

The  golden,  happy,  long  ago, — 
The  days,  whate'er  the  span  of  years, 

That  nature  will  allot  me  yet : 
Wherever  Fate  my  life-barque  steers, 

I  never,  never,  shall  forget. 


203 


AT    THE     GATES     OF    NOON. 


Darling  Hume. 

\1  7HKN  the  moon  on  yonder  tower 

Rains  its  soft  and  crystal  shower 

In  the  sweet  sequestered  bower, 
My  darling  Annie  ! 

Where  the  alders  bending  low 
Kiss  the  streamlet's  gentle  flow, 
Where  we  parted  long  ago, 
I'll  meet  thee  Annie. 

There  beside  that  singing  stream, 
'Neath  the  moon's  inspiring  beam, 
I  will  tell  thee  my  life's  dream, 
My  darling  Annie. 

Oh  !  what  joy  it  will  impart 
To  my  true  but  tortured  heart 
If  you'll  breathe,  "no  more  we'll  part," 
My  darling  Annie. 

How  oft  this  many  a  day, 
'Neath  the  eve-star's  tender  ray, 
There,  all  lonely,  did  I  stray, 
My  darling  Annie  ! 


304 


DARLING    ANNIE. 


While  each  leaf  the  zephyr  stirred, 
Every  song-bird's  note  I  heard, 
Called  to  mind  the  parting  word, 
My  darling  Annie. 


AT     THE     GATES     OF     NOON 


Uell  /iDe  Jflou  Xove  /foe. 

OTAR  of  my  night  ! 
^  Sun  of  my  clay  ! 
Happy  when  near  thee, 

Sad  when  away. 
Beautiful  maiden 

With  smile  half  divine, 
Tell  me  you  love  me, 

Say  you'll  be  mine. 

How  dear  I  love  thee 

Words  cannot  tell  ; 
Mortal  has  never 

Loved  woman  so  well, 
Since  first  I  saw  thee 

My  heart  is  thine, 
Tell  me  you  love  me, 

Say  you'll  be  mine. 

In  every  tress 

Of  thy  rich,  golden  hair, 
That  streams  clown  thy  neck 

And  shoulders  so  fair  ; 


206 


TELL     ME     YOU     LOVE     MK. 

In  every  feature 

Such  rare  beauties  shine, 
I  would  not  exchange  them 

For  earth's  richest  mine. 

Peace  of  my  soul, 

Comforter,  kind, 
Deep  in  my  heart 

And  fond  thou  art  shrined 
So  deep  and  so  true 

No  words  can  define  ; 
Tell  me  you  love  me, 

Say  you'll  be  mine. 

Oh,  for  that  word 

I  am  longing  to  hear  ! 
Earth  knows  no  sound 

Half  so  sweet  to  mine  ear. 
Oh  !.  for  those  lips, 

More  ruby  than  wine, 
Tell  me  you  love  me, 

Say  you'll  be  mine. 


207 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Hnnfe. 

WOU  told  me  you'd  write  me  from  over  the  sea 
A  long,  loving  letter,  my  Annie  machree  ; 
And  tell  me  of  all  the  dear  friends  whom  we 

knew, 
And  who  in  our  childhood  were  kind  to  us  two. 

You  would  picture  the  traits  of  that   nourishing 

land 

Where  Freedom  and  Peace  ever  go  hand  in  hand, 
That  gives  to  the  exile  a  hearth  and  a  home 
When,  alas  !  from   their  own   they  are  driven  to 
roam. 

Now  two  years  have  passed  since  you  left  this 

sweet  shore 

And  you  have  not  written,  my  Annie  asthore, 
And  I  have  been  waiting,  ah,  waiting  in  pain, 
Your  long-promised  letter  from  over  the  main. 

Oh,  times   are  much  changed  in  our  own  native 

land 

Since,  weeping,  you  stood  on  its  emerald  strand, 
Since  I,  sad  at  heart,  through  salt  tears,  from 

the  quay, 
Saw  the  bark  that  was  wafting  my  darling  away- 


ANNIE. 

And  I,  too,  dear  Annie,  will  soon  have  to  part 
From  the  land  of  my  fathers,  the  home  of  my 

heart, 

The  isle  I  have  worshipped  since  I  was  a  boy, 
The  source  of  my  sorrow,  my  bliss,  and  my  joy. 


209 


AT     THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Bnnie  Darlimj. 

K  back,  Annie   darling  !   oh,  come   back 
to  me, 

Come  back  to  thy  lover  that's  waiting  for  thee  ; 
The  fireside  is  lonely,  the  cottage  is  drear, 
The  day  hath   no   brightness  when  thou  art  not 

near, 
Come   back,   Annie  darling,   oh  !   come  back  to 

me, 
Come  back  to  thy  lover  who's  longing   for  thee. 

You  told  me  when  leaving  you  would  not  delay, 
That  you  would  return  some  bright  summer  day, 
The  Summer  has  come  and  the  Autumn  is  past, 
And  the  dark  clouds  of  Winter  are  gathering 

fast. 
Come   back,   Annie  darling,   oh  !   come   back  to 

me, 
Come  back  to  thy  lover  who's  longing  for  thee. 


ANNIP:    DARI.ING. 

"I'is  true  that  you  dwell  in  a  land  that  is  fair, 
That  Freedom  and  Peace,  and  Contentment  are 

there ; 

There  must  be  a  magical  spell  in  the  land 
That  could  keep  you  a  moment  from  our  native 

strand. 
Come  back,   Annie  darling,   oh  !   come  back  to 

me, 
Come  back  to  thy  lover  who's  longing  for  thee. 

Oh  !  is  it,  asthore,  that  Columbia's  more  dear? 
Or  is  it  that  we  are  in  slavery  here  ? 
Or  what  can  it  be  that  could  keep  you  a  day 
From  our  native  vale  and  thy  lover  away. 
Come  back,   Annie  darling,   oh  !   come   back  to 

me, 
Come  back  to  thy  lover  who's  longing  for  thee. 

Oh  !  often  you  said  as  we  roamed  side  by  side, 
In   days  of  our  childhood   by   Ougham's  sweet 

tide, 
You'd    never    forget,    love,    through    weal    and 

through  woe, 

Your  own  native  valley  wherever  you'd  go. 
Come  back,  Annie  darling,   oh  !   come  back  to 

me, 
Come  back  to  thy  lover  who's  longing  for  thee. 


AT    THE     GATES    OF     NOON. 


©wn  flDarp  H>ear. 


A  S  morning  light  beaming  when  first  it  comes 
**•     streaming 

Like  rills  o'er  the  mountain  so  bland  and  so 

clear, 
As    bright  and  as  tender,  may  Heaven  defend 

her! 
Is  my  gentle  maiden,  my  own  Mary  dear. 

So  deeply  I  love  her,  no  mortal  above  her, 
Shall  dwell  in  my  heart,  and  I'll  ever  revere 

With  purest  devotion  while  a  pulse  is  in  motion, 
The  sweetest  of  maidens,  my  own  Mary  dear. 

The  spirit  of  pleasure,  a  home's  dearest  treasure, 
A  gem  that  will  ever  grow  dearer  each  year, 

A  fountain  of  sweetness,  perfection's  complete 

ness, 
Is  my  little  maiden,  my  own  Mary  dear. 

Oh!  how  could  I  leave  her,  for  earth  I'd  not 
grieve  her, 

And  the  truest  in  love  takes  grief  most  severe. 
No  !  absence  shall  never  the  golden  chain  sever 

That  faithfully  binds  me  to  my  Mary  dear. 


MY     OWN     MARY     DEAR. 

Oh!  who'd  not  believe  her  ?  oh  !  who  could  de 
ceive  her  ? 
What   heart   could  wish   wrong  to   a  maid  so 

sincere  ? 
What  doer  of  harm  it  would  not  disarm 

To  gaze  on  the  sweet  face  of  my  Mary  dear  ? 

Oh  !  could  I  forever,  by  any  endeavor, 
Wherever  she  lives,  be  e'en  toiling  anear, 

More  happy  I'd  be  than  if  kingdom  to  me 
Were  given  apart  for  my  own  Mary  dear. 


213 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON. 


Uo  /ID.  3.  1R. 

OI)  speed  the  ship  that  bears  thee  R — ,  across 

the  swelling  sea, 
And  may  the  winds  and  waves  unite  to  make  it 

sweet  for  thee. 
May  sun   and   moon   smile  brightly  down   upon 

thee  night  and  day, 
Till   thou  shalt   feast  thine  eyes  again  upon  thy 

native  bay. 

Oh  !  what  a  joy  and   pride  will  hll   the   heart   of 

Innisfail 
As  to  her  breast   she   presses   thee   and    fondly 

bids  thee  "hail !  " 
How  Millstreet's  soul  will  thrill  with   joy  to  see 

the  loved  one  come, 
And   Clara   wave   her  heather  flag    to  bid   thee 

welcome  home. 

Though    years    sixteen    have  rolled  adown   the 

current  of  the  past 
Since  on   the  hills  of   Innisfail   a  ling'ring  look 

you  cast, 


214 


TO     M.     J.      K. 

Your  ardent    love  for  motherland  has  but  the 

stronger  grown. 
As,   through   the  days  and    months   and    years, 

your  burning  pen  has  shown. 

God  speed  the  ship  that  bears  thee  R — ,  across 

the  heaving  sea, 
And   may  the  angels  night  and  day  keep  watch 

and  guard  o'er  thee, 
May  rosy  hours   around  thee   smile  and  sorrows 

ne'er  intrude, 
And   mayst   thou  come   to  us  again  with  health 

and  strength  renewed. 

But  we  will  miss  you,  genial  R —  ;  ah  !  we  will 
miss  you  here. 

While  yet  we  envy  you  the  joy  of  treading  Ire 
land  dear. 

We'll  miss  you  in  the  meeting  hall,  we'll  miss 
your  tireless  pen — 

"(iocl  keep  you  safe"  is  prayer  of  all,  till  you 
come  back  again. 


AT    THE     GATES     OK     NOON. 


flnvestioate,  flnvesttoators.  * 

A  YK,  let  us  have  the  naked  truth, 
**      No  more  we  ask  nor  less  is  wanted  ; 
The  facts,  commissioners  !  forsooth, 

Though  you  may  be  election-haunted. 
We  want  to  know,  and  know  we  must, 

Who  wronged  the  soldiers  of  the  nation, 
And  crimefully  betrayed  our  trust, 

No  matter  what  their  rank  or  station. 

What  do  the  weeping  mothers  care 

For  "sons  of  somebody's"  ambitions  —  ? 

Fond  hearts  doomed  ever  to  despair 
For  dreams  of  scheming  politicians  ? 

Their  loved  ones  they  shall  see  no  more 
Because  some  quack  official  blundered — 

Nor  fell  they  on  a  foreign  shore 
Where  foemen  charged  and  cannons  thundered. 

They  answered  Freedom's  call  with  pride 
And  fought  the  fight  and  triumph  -tasted, 

But  homeward  totter,  sunken-eyed, 
With  bodies  bent  and  famine-wasted. 

*  Relating  to    mal-adminittration    in   the  Spanish-American  War, 


INVESTIGATE,     INVESTIGATORS. 

And  one  by  one  they  pine  and  die  ; 

Yet  with  their  dying  prayer  is  blended 
A  sigh  —  Ah  should  it  be  a  sigh —  ? 

For  God's  own  land  they  well  defended. 

Yes,  let  us  have  the  naked  truth, 

No  more  we  ask  nor  less  is  wanted  ; 
The  facts,  commissioners  !  forsooth, 

Though  you  may  be  election-haunted. 
We  want  to  know  and  we  must  know 

Who  wronged  the  soldiers  of  the  nation 
And  wrapped  our  homes  in  shroud  of  woe 

Or --we'll  make  our  investigation. 


217 


AT    THE     GATES     OF     NOON 


Ubc  2>ap  We  Celebrate. 


fling  the  star-strewn  banner  out 
And  let  the  cannons  roar, 
Make  every  hoarse-tongued  belfry  shout 

From  shore  to  sounding  shore. 
Scream,  eagle  !  scream,  thy  chainless  mirth 

Above  each  love-linked  state, 
Our  Freedom  and  our  Nation's  birth, 
To-day  we  celebrate. 

And  let  each  race  and  class^and  creed 

In  friendship,  brothers  be, 
Our  fathers   blood  bedewed  the  seed 

Whose  flower  is  Liberty. 
Let  Love  and  Truth  and  Right  have  sway 

And  buried  be  all  Hate, 
God  never  made  another  day 

Like  this  we  celebrate. 

Beneath  the  lightning  of  the  sword 

To  life  our  Nation  sprang. 
The  shot  at  Lexington  that  roared 

The  knell  of  tyrants  rang. 


THF.     DAY     \VE     CELEBKATE. 

Oh  !  let  it  roar  again  to-day. 

To  symbolize  the  fate 
Awaiting  all  who  would  betray 

What  now  we  celebrate. 

0  Starry  emblem  of  the  free 
And  hope  of  the  oppressed  ! 

1  cannot  voice  the  love  for  thee 

That  wells  within  my  breast. 
But  should'st  thou  ever  need  my  aid, 

Though  lowly  my  estate, 
All  I  possess  —  my  life  and  blade — 

To  thee  I  consecrate. 


219 


AT    THE     GATES     OK     NOON. 


TCflfoat  Mill  tbe  Doctors  H>o  ? 

AH!  what  will  all  the  doctors  do, 
**•     And  all  the  drug-compounders,  too, 
When  old  and  young  seek  meadow-dew 
To  cure  their  aches  and  ills  ? 

Must  hospital  and  college  go  ? 
And  great  professors  learn  to  grow 
Long-whiskered  grass,  and  make  it  glow 
At  dawn  with  crystal  pills  ? 

Must  doctors'  future  text-book  be 
The  rosy  dawn  and  verdant  lea  ? 
Their  drugs  the  tears  that  silent ly 
Drop  from  the  midnight's  eye  ? 

Must  they  unlearn  whate'er  they  know 
Of  microbe  lore,  and  simply  go 
Through  parks  on  "light  fantastic  toe" 
To  make  disorders  fly  ? 

Of  course,  some  say,  "  'tis  but  a  fad,  " 
But  that's  what  makes  it  doubly  bad  ; 
The  young,  and  even  ma  and  dad, 
Are  fashion-mad  to-day. 


WHAT     WILL    THE     DOCTOKS     DO 

And  then  it  is  a  thrilling  sight, 
Most  clear  to  dude  and  bald-head  wight, 
To  see  bare  ankles,  small  and  white, 
Gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

Ah,  me  !  what  will  the  doctors  do  ? 
Of  course,  there  are  a  favored  few 
Who  own  broad  meadows,  and  can  view 
Their  future  practice  there. 

But  for  the  rest,  it  seems  to  me, 
Unless  they  plant,  in  dew  and  lea, 
A  new  bacillus  or  a  rlea, 

There's  nothing  but  despair. 


221 


AT    THE     GATES    OF     NOOX. 


flt's  a  Wer\?  ffunns 


It's  a  very  funny  world  this  —  half  poverty    and 

wealth, 
Where  doctors  wish  for  sickness  and  all   others 

wish  for  health  ; 
Where    undertakers    cannot    live    unless    their 

neighbors  die  , 
And  butchers  want  their  friends  for  stew  —  hotel- 

men  theirs  to  lie. 

It's  a  very  funny  world,  where  to  kill  yourselfs 

no  sin, 
Vet  if  you  kill  your  neighbor,  all  to  kill  you  will 

begin  : 
Where    lovers  love  each  other  and  just    quarrel 

to  forgive, 
And  murder  one  another  that  together  they  may 

live. 

It's  a  very  funny  world,  where  the  bankers  keep 

the  bank, 
And  the  clerks  spend  all  the  money,   while  de 

positors  grow  lank  ; 
Where,    if  you   ask   your   savings   back,    you're 

told  they  all  have  fled, 
And  all   accounts   are  tattered  up  and   all  the 

clerks  are—  dead  ! 


ERRATA. 

Page  43,  Third  stanza,  fourth  line  should  read 
"eve"  not  "eye." 

Page  47,  Second  stanza,  second  line  should  read 
"through"  not  "though." 


